


Small Miracles, Big Breakfasts

by achoo_gesundheit



Category: Breakfast with Scot (2007), Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming Out, Crossover, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-01-28 07:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12601560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achoo_gesundheit/pseuds/achoo_gesundheit
Summary: Bitty’s first thought was that he was being pranked, that Jack recruited someone to slam him into the sideboards every Tuesday, just to keep him in check. But the person who’d crashed into him wasn’t on the hockey team, and looked equally stunned to be suddenly facedown on the ice. Bitty dragged himself back to standing, already feeling the bruises he would surely see tomorrow morning, and offered a hand to his assailant.“Gracious, what a way to meet a guy.” Bitty said. “I'm Eric Bittle, but everyone just calls me Bitty.”“LaTour, Scot,” the boy said, offering a hand of his own. “One T.”*Or, the story in which Bitty makes a new friend, Jack makes some new headlines, and everyone makes breakfast.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the Breakfast With Scot crossover fic that apparently no one wanted but me, since I had to write the freaking thing. I've been poking away at this beast for years, and I'm delighted to finally be releasing it into the wild. It would not be possible without the help of K, whose knowledge of grammar and spelling is a constant grace; Zoey, who has blessed me with enthusiastic annotations (and beautiful art); and Anna, who reads anything and everything I send her way, despite never having read a comic in her life. Thanks to you all for your ceaseless support and textual yelling in my general direction. 
> 
> The Scot in this story is based on the Scot of the 2007 film. It's not strictly necessary to have seen it, but there are definitely some easter eggs for those who have (and if you haven't seen it, do yourself a favor and go watch it, because it's a gem). It is also distinct from the novel of the same name, which features absolutely no hockey or fist fights of any kind, but is a lovely little number written by a professor at my alma mater, who I was lucky enough to take a class with. It's a quick read (quicker than this by far) and will leave you even more in love with these characters than you thought possible.
> 
> Let this also stand as a disclaimer - my love for Bitty and Scot is endless, but my ownership is nonexistent.

The first Tuesday of Bitty’s junior year, he planned to sleep in. He silenced the five-o’clock alarm and fell asleep in anticipation of the blissful waking that comes from stirring into consciousness on your own, sun already risen in the sky, late summer breeze creeping in through the open window. But at five-o’clock the next morning, Bitty was wide awake. He punched his pillow down, flipped to a new position, and dozed fitfully until finally dragging himself out of bed at eight, drowsier than ever. He made stacks of grumpy pancakes, feeding them to the hungry Haus as they emerged one by one for the first day of the semester. Bitty stuffed a determined forkful into his own mouth, and purposefully left the five-o’clock alarm turned off. 

After three more weeks, it became a pattern. Bitty waking every morning like clockwork, only to toss and turn and stare angrily at the digital clock on his nightstand. By the first week of October, Bitty had had enough. He opened his eyes and stared out his window at the still-dark morning. Then, he rolled out of bed, grabbed his skates, and left for Faber. 

Summer had left Massachusetts in surrender, Autumn’s fingerprint strikingly evident in the early-October chill. Bitty shivered, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, and shouldered open the door to the rink. Brain running on auto-pilot, he dropped his bag in the locker room, tugged on his skates, and hobbled out onto the ice, only to immediately be bowled over by a fast-moving mess of flailing limbs. 

Bitty’s first thought was that he was being pranked, that Jack recruited someone to slam him into the sideboards every Tuesday, just to keep him in check. But the person who’d crashed into him wasn’t on the hockey team, and looked equally stunned to be suddenly facedown on the ice. Bitty dragged himself back to standing, already feeling the bruises he would surely see tomorrow morning, and offered a hand to his assailant. The boy (girl? Bitty couldn’t be sure) grabbed it and levered themselves up, the until now unseen headphones dangling loosely around their neck. 

“Oh heavens, I am so sorry,” Bitty started, “I’ve never seen anyone else out on the ice this early, I wasn’t even paying attention! Are you alright?”

The boy (Bitty was pretty sure they were a boy now) shook his head, as if to clear it, and smiled. “No problem, I was a little out of it myself,” he gestured to the headphones. 

“Gracious, what a way to meet a guy.” Bitty stuck out a hand. “Eric Bittle,” he said. “But everyone just calls me Bitty.”

“LaTour, Scot,” the boy said, offering a hand of his own. “One T.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Scot with one T,” Bitty said. 

Scot grinned. 

“What brings you to Faber so early?” Bitty asked, leaning against the sideboard. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

Scot shrugged. “I wasn’t asleep, figured I’d come and skate a bit – the rink’s usually already booked this time in the morning, thought I’d take advantage of the opening while I have the chance.”

Bitty nodded. “That’d be my fault, partly. My b-“ He shook his head. “My captain used to bring me here for checking practice this time every week.”

“You play hockey?” Scot asked, eyes widening.

“Forward,” Bitty said, smiling.

“Huh,” Scot said. “Wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Bitty gestured to the figure skates on Scot’s feet. “How long have you been skating?”

“Oh, since I was a kid,” Scot said, offhand. “Bit out of practice though,” he added ruefully.

“You and me both, honey.”

Scot cocked his head, mop of red curls bouncing from one side to the other. “You up for it, then?” He asked, jerking a thumb at the empty rink. 

Bitty grinned, pushing himself off the sideboard. “You sure you can keep up?”

Scot spun tightly on the spot, glancing over his shoulder as he took off across the ice. “Try me.” 

*

By the time Bitty slowed to a stop, the clock read six thirty and he was flushed and sweating. It really had been a long time since he’d skated this way, and he found himself having trouble keeping up with Scot’s spins and turns, especially when he was still wearing his hockey skates. Scot skid to a halt next to him, sending a spray of ice up behind his skates. He grinned down at Bitty.

“Not bad, hockey bro,” he said, running a hand through his unruly curls. “Where’d you learn to skate like that?”

“I am not a hockey bro!” Bitty said, panting. Then, “Well, at least I didn’t start that way.” He pointed down at Scot’s skates. “Used to do that.”

That wide-eyed look was back on Scot’s face. “What made you switch to hockey?”

Bitty laughed, still out of breath. “That’s a long story, for another time.” His stomach growled, echoing through the empty air of Faber. “After I’ve had some breakfast.” Legs sore, Bitty slowly propelled himself towards the exit, dropping himself down onto a bench to pull his skates off. Scot leaned against the boards, unsure, before Bitty asked, “You hungry?”

Scot nodded, curls bouncing, and plopped down next to him, unlacing his own skates with the ease of years of practice. 

“So you’re a junior too?” Bitty asked as they made their way through campus, still quiet, sun just beginning to peek over the horizon. “Funny how we’ve never met before now.”

“Well, I can’t say I’ve spent much time in the hockey circle,” Scot admitted, gait awkward as he forced his long legs to match pace with Bitty.

“And I never quite make it out of the hockey circle.” Bitty frowned. “I should probably work on that.”

Scot laughed. “I still can’t believe you’re a hockey bro.”

“Excuse you! I’m not a bro.”

“You live in the hockey house.” Scot said, ticking off on his fingers. 

“So?”

“You only attend hockey parties.”

“Yeah…”

“All your friends either play hockey or are involved in hockey.”

“Well yes, but-“

Scot waggled his fingers at him. “Hockey. Bro.”

Bitty scoffed, rolling his eyes. He hefted his bag a little higher on his shoulder, which was starting to smart from where it had impacted the ice. 

“Where are we going, by the way?” Scot asked, before Bitty could reply.

Bitty looked up, and realized that he’d been heading back towards the Haus. “Oh.” He looked at Scot, who seemed more curious than anything. “I mean- I was going to make breakfast.”

Scot raised an eyebrow. 

Bitty rushed on. “I mean, I didn’t think, I just always make breakfast and only now am I realizing that maybe you wouldn’t want to eat with me at the Haus because that’s probably super weird and, oh gracious, see this is why I don’t have non-hockey friends!” 

Scot was full on laughing now, and Bitty reached up to whack him on the shoulder. Scot yelped, then shoved his shoulder into Bitty, knocking him a few feet to the left. 

“Oh my gosh!” Scot said, throwing out an arm to grab Bitty and stop him from tumbling onto the sidewalk. “You really can’t take a hit can you?”

“Why do you think I had checking practice every morning?” Bitty grumbled, rubbing his shoulder, dreading the now inevitable bruising. 

Scot laughed, and Bitty glared. “Sorry,” he said, sincere, and Bitty stuck out his tongue at him. “Please still make me breakfast?”

Bitty was silent, as if seriously considering just sending Scot away, before he rolled his eyes and linked his arm through Scot’s. “Come on then,” he said, tugging him across the unkempt lawn of the Haus. “Let’s get you fed.”

*

“Oh my god, this is delicious,” Scot said, twenty minutes later, around a mouthful of brown butter waffle. “How are you even real?”

Bitty blushed, stacking two waffles onto his own plate. “Hush, it was nothing.”

“Really, these are phenomenal.” He stuffed another bite into his mouth. “What’s your secret?” he asked. 

Bitty tsked. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Scot rolled his eyes and swallowed. “Think you’d be used to it by now, living here.” He glanced around the Haus, at the impeccably neat kitchen, surrounded by piles of dirty shoes piled up in the hallway, and the fading, likely radioactive, green couch just visible in the living room. 

“Even us hockey bros can have manners,” Bitty said, taking a neat bite of waffles and smiling.

Scot smiled back, and then straightened up, face paling and eyes fixed over Bitty’s shoulder. 

Bitty was about to turn around when a pair of familiar arms looped around his neck, and a sloppy kissed was planted on his cheek. 

“Morning, Bits,” Lardo said, nuzzling sleepily into his neck. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Brown butter waffles with a pear-maple reduction,” Bitty replied. 

“God, I love you so much,” Lardo professed, reaching over Bitty’s shoulder to pick a piece off his plate. 

Bitty slapped her hand away. “Get your own, missy. There’s plenty to go around!”

Sighing, Lardo straightened up and wandered around the table to grab a plate. It was then that Bitty realized she had come down in nothing but one of Shitty’s old t-shirts and a pair of briefs. She piled a few waffles on her plate, spooning maple sauce on top, and promptly shoved a bite in her mouth. She groaned in appreciation, heaving herself up to sit on the table, before waving her fork at Scot. He was white as a sheet now, and hadn’t moved since she’d arrived in the kitchen. “What’s with Little Orphan Undercut over here?”

Bitty forced down a laugh as Scot ran a hand self-consciously through his hair.

“That’s Scot,” Bitty said. “One T. Scot, this is Lardo.”

Lardo wiped her hand on her shirt before offering it to Scot. “Good to meet you, Scot, one T.”

Scot numbly shook her hand, and Lardo quirked an eyebrow at him. 

This time Bitty did laugh. “Lardo, for heaven’s sake, go put some pants on before you traumatize him.”

Lardo popped her fork into her mouth and slid off the table, shirt sliding up to reveal several inches of bare stomach. Scot looked like he might faint. Winking at him, Lardo sashayed out of the kitchen, taking her plate with her. 

“Deep breaths, Scot,” Bitty said, not unkindly. 

After a moment, Scot’s color returned a little, and he took a sip of water. “I didn’t realize you had a girlfriend,” he said carefully.

Bitty dropped his fork. “Wait, you thought-“ He started again. “Me and Lardo?” He laughed, slightly hysteric. “No, no no no no, that’s not- we’re not-“ He brought a hand up to his cheeks, which were starting to flush uncomfortably again. “Scot, honey, I’m as queer as a three-dollar bill.”

“But you- she was so-“ Scot floundered.

“Lardo’s a friend,” Bitty explained frantically. “An affectionate friend,” he added, at Scot’s skeptical look.

“Who’s affectionate?” Holster said, ambling into the kitchen, Ransom shuffling in sleepily behind him. He ruffled Bitty’s hair as he walked by. “Hot damn, Rans, Bits made waffles.”

Ransom looked up at that, sidling up next to Holster to make a plate. Holster bumped his hip playfully, putting a quiet smile on Ransom’s face, before they both wandered out of the kitchen again, a “Thanks, Bits!” thrown over a shoulder. 

Scot sat ramrod straight in his chair, look of bewilderment on his face. “The hockey house is not at all what I expected,” he said quietly.

Bitty smiled, serene and just a little smug. “Hang in there, bro,” he chirped, and added another waffle to Scot’s plate.

*

Later that night, dull light of Skype illuminating his otherwise dark room, Bitty found himself regaling Jack with tales of Scot. 

“He’s a junior, double majoring in theater and women’s and gender studies,” Bitty said. “I wonder if Shitty knows him?”

“Shitty knows everyone,” Jack laughed. 

Bitty rushed on. “He’s almost as tall as you and a really good skater. He did a double axel this morning like it was nothing!”

Jack’s impressed nod was only partially mocking.

“And his hair,” Bitty continued, “Oh my gosh, his hair. I wonder if it’s naturally that red? It must be.” He brought a hand to his forehead. “Dear Lord, his parents must be stunning.”

“It sounds like you really like him,” Jack said quietly.

“It’s just so refreshing to talk to someone who doesn’t play hockey all the time!” Bitty said.

Jack laughed half-heartedly. “Sorry.”

Bitty blanched, eyes finally coming back to rest on Jack’s pixilated face. “Oh, sweetheart, no! That’s not what I meant!”

Jack shrugged.

“Our conversations are the best part of my day, Jack, no matter what they’re about,” Bitty said earnestly.

Jack’s eyes fell, chin dropping to his chest, but Bitty could see the smile peeking out from underneath his fringe. 

“Jack Zimmerman,” Bitty gasped, “are you messing with me?”

When he looked up, Jack’s smile was cheeky and knowing, and Bitty glowered.

“You damn near gave me a heart attack!” He wailed, before scoffing. “If you want me to wax poetic, Mr. Zimmermann, you only have to ask.”

“It’s nice to hear, sometimes,” Jack admitted. 

“Any time, sweetheart,” Bitty said, voice soft and southern in the way it only ever was for Jack. Then, he narrowed his eyes and wagged a finger at the screen. “Just quit fishing!”

Jack chuckled, holding his hands up in surrender. 

“You’re a menace,” Bitty harrumphed. “Where was I?”

“Telling me about the undeniable beauty of Scot’s parents’ hair,” Jack replied drily.

Bitty’s eyes lit up again. “Jack, if you’d seen it, you’d understand.” 

“I’m sure.”

Bitty snuggled a little further into his pillow, tucking Señor Bunny more securely under one arm, and smiled. 

“You look happy,” Jack said. 

“It’s nice to have a new friend,” Bitty replied. 

Jack nodded. He opened his mouth to say something, then quickly shut it. 

“What?” Bitty asked, tilting the screen forward to get the angle just right.

“It’s not important,” Jack said, shaking his head.

Bitty rolled his eyes. “Jack, what?”

There was moment of awkward silence before Jack asked, “Is Scot gay?”

Bitty’s brow wrinkled. “I’m not sure.” He paused. “Does it matter?”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “Not in the way it sounds,” he clarified. “I just think it must be nice to have friends who…” He searched for the right word, before settling on, “Understand.”

The angry, fearful something unclenched in Bitty’s chest and he laughed a little. “It sure would be.”

*

The next Tuesday, Bitty jumped out of bed with a new spring in his step. By the time he made it to Faber, Scot was already skating slow circles around the rink. Bitty waved, and Scot skid to a halt next to the gap in the sideboards, delighted smile dimpling already red cheeks. 

“Hey!” he said, yanking one headphone out of his ear. “Good morning!”

“Morning,” Bitty replied cheerily, stepping smoothly onto the ice. “What’s on the playlist for today?” he asked, gesturing to the ipod strapped to Scot’s arm.

“The modern Broadway musical,” Scot replied, enthusiastic. “It’s research, technically.”

“Of course,” Bitty said. “Hook it up to the speakers?”

Scot grinned, clambering awkwardly up to the sound booth before returning to the ice, the opening chords of Fun Home beginning to filter through the Faber sound system. 

“Interesting choice,” Bitty said, his muscles steadily warming with every firm push of his skates. 

Scot spun so he was skating backwards in front of Bitty. “Let’s just say I’m empathizing with the awkward gay dad struggle this morning,” he said, and left it at that. “Race you!”

Bitty watched him take off across the ice and cursed. “Cheating!” He yelled, and took off after him. 

It was relaxing, Bitty realized, to skate for fun and not for practice. Jack, he knew, would insist the two were one and the same, but sometimes Bitty forgot what brought him to the sport in the first place. The exhilaration of propelling yourself across the ice, chill smarting on your cheeks; the thrill of a landing a perfectly executed leap, skates gliding smoothly across the rink, like a knife through butter on a hot Georgia day. Skating with Scot was easy, joyful, and absent the pressure of preparing for a game. By the time Scot’s soundtrack landed on a Hamilton song, Bitty was loose and flushed and all too eager to choreograph The Revolution: on Ice!

As the last chord petered out, Bitty looked over to where Scot had struck a pose and began laughing, his own arm outstretched in an equally dramatic finish. Scot laughed in return, until they were both doubled over, heaving out great guffaws for no other reason than it was seven o’clock on a Tuesday morning, and they were the only people in the quiet world of Faber. 

“Bitty,” Scot said finally, fitting in a breath between his ongoing giggles. “Can I buy you dinner sometime?”

Bitty’s laughter died out, and he turned to Scot, smile small and questioning. “You mean, like a date?”

“Yeah.” Scot said. “Yes.” At Bitty’s silence he added, “I know you like to cook, but I can’t cook so I thought I’d take you out somewhere. Not that I can take you anywhere nice, because, you know, college student, but I know this great Vietnamese place, I mean I don’t know if you like Vietnamese but they have the best Pho I’ve ever had outside Toronto and-“

“Scot!” Bitty shouted, cutting off his ramble. 

Scot blushed. “Sorry.”

Bitty smiled. “Don’t be,” he said gently. “You’re cute as a button, and sweet to boot, but I’m afraid I’m spoken for.”

“Oh,” Scot said, and he seemed to shrink before Bitty’s eyes, embarrassment causing him to curl into himself. “I didn’t realize.”

“Of course not,” Bitty said. “He doesn’t go here, you wouldn’t know.”

“Yeah,” Scot said, and Bitty thought if he curled over any further his curls would sweep the ice.

“I do really want to be your friend, though,” Bitty said, cocking his head so he could meet Scot’s eyes. “You up for it?”

Taking a breath, Scot straightened up a little. “You sure you can keep up with a theater major, hockey bro?” he asked, voice wobbly but loud in the empty rink. 

Bitty grinned. “Try me.”

*

They continued to skate together every Tuesday morning, and when hockey season officially started, Scot was at the opening game. Jack and Shitty were there, too. They lost by one but they played strong, Bitty even coming close to a check in the second. Bitty waved up at Scot, who was shouting support like it was his job, and smiled at Jack and Shitty, who had been enthusiastic, even by Samwell standards. 

Ransom skated up to Bitty, jerking his head at Scot in the stands. “Who’s the redhead?” 

“That’s Scot,” Bitty said, accepting high-fives from the tadpoles as they all ambled off the ice. “He’s a friend.”

“He was at the Haus a few weeks ago,” Holster said from behind him. “You don’t remember?”

Ransom’s brow furrowed in thought. 

“It was the morning Bitty made those orgasmic waffles,” Holster added. “He was sitting right there at the table.”

Ransom thought for another second then shook his head. “Nope, I got nothing.”

Holster rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

Ransom shrugged. “And hungry.”

“You’ll have to properly introduce us, Bits.” Holster said, punching Ransom in the shoulder affectionately. “Su amigo es mi amigo, or something like that.”

“Dude, that was appalling.”

“Whatever, Canada. Go eat a crepe or something.”

“I’m from Toronto.”

“They don’t have crepes in Toronto?”

Bitty laughed, sliding his feet out of his skates and shrugging out of his pads. It was a good game, but it felt odd to play without the seniors, without Jack. Who was standing at the door to the locker room now, signing Whiskey’s Zimmermann jersey. Bitty heard Ransom inviting him to the kegster, psyched when Jack promised he’d be there. Finally, he made his way over to Bitty, a moment of awkward silence broken when he offered a fist to bump. Bitty took a relieved breath, oxygen rushing back to his lungs, and returned it. They made an admirable amount of chit-chat, keeping a casual two feet of separation between them. Jack left Bitty with a wink that spoke volumes. He and Shitty made their exit, and Bitty tried to focus on the comforting chatter of the locker room. Everything still seemed slightly off balance, like they were all recovering from a sudden amputation. Bitty scoffed at the mental image of Jack as a phantom limb, and cranked the shower to scalding. 

When the team emerged from the locker room, Scot was still loitering in the stands. He caught sight of Bitty and smiled, bright and enthusiastic, and waved. Bitty waved back and walked over, Ransom and Holster at either shoulder. 

“Great game!” Scot exclaimed. “That bar down was unbelievable, Bitty! I can’t believe how fast you skate. And you guys got some sick sauce in the third!”

Ransom and Holster exchanged a surprised look, and Bitty smirked. 

“You know your hockey shit there- uh,” Holster broke off.

“Scot!” Scot said, clearly delighted. “One T.”

“Good to meet you,” Holster said, shaking his hand. Ransom did the same. “How’d you meet Bits here?”

“He skates,” Bitty explained. “We bumped into each other one morning at Faber.”

“Literally,” Scot added, and they shared a giggle.

“Well, One T, you’re welcome at the Haus any time,” Holster told him. 

“Bro, One T is a terrible nickname,” Ransom said. 

“I just met the dude, what do you want from me?”

“I expect more, Holtzy. You disappoint me.”

“Well what do you wanna call him, then?”

“You could just call him Scot,” Bitty said, exasperated.

Ransom and Holster just stared. 

“My dad calls me Skoosh,” Scot cut in, and Ransom and Holster turned to look. 

“Skoosh,” Holster said, rolling it around in his mouth. “Skooooooooooosh.”

“I like it,” Ransom said, nodding in approval.

“Your dad a hockey man?” Holster asked.

Scot shrugged. “He can play.”

They both nodded now, all business.

“Skoosh it is,” Ransom said. 

“Hey bring your dad around some time, if he’s ever in town,” Holster said. “We’ll play a little pick-up.”

“Will do!” Scot said, smiling.

Holster smiled back, and clapped him on the shoulder.

“See ya around Skoosh, Bits,” Ransom said, heading for the exit.

Holster gave them a cocky salute and followed him out. 

Scot was still grinning when he turned back to Bitty, and Bitty just shook his head. 

“Welcome to the club, Scot,” he said, throwing an arm around his shoulders. 

Scot opened his mouth to respond and then froze like that, staring over Bitty’s shoulder.

“Oh!” Bitty said, turning around to see Jack smiling softly behind him. “Jack! I thought you went back to the Haus?” 

Jack shrugged. “Shitty caught sight of Lardo and ditched me.” He knocked his shoulder casually against Bitty’s. “Thought I’d walk back with you.”

Bitty’s heart skipped a beat. Behind him, Scot coughed. Jack turned to him then, smile never slipping, but morphing into a more guarded one. This was PR Jack.

“Hi,” he said, sticking out a hand. “Jack Zimmermann.” 

“Scot Latour,” Scot said, wits returning. “My dad sent me some of your highlight reel the other day, looks like you’re rocking it with the Falconers.”

“Scot!” Jack said, relaxing. “Bitty’s told me a lot about you. And thanks, I’m certainly trying my best. You tell your dad I say hey.”

Scot smirked. “I will. And, you know, it’s funny – Bitty’s told me almost nothing about you?”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and Bitty blushed.

“Oh, mercy,” Bitty said, laughing a little nervously. He smiled at Scot. “Thanks so much for coming! You’re a peach, truly. Come on over to the Haus tonight, I’m sure Ransom and Holster would be thrilled to have you.” 

Scot nodded, but Bitty had already turned to Jack.

“I think I left my phone in the locker room. Walk with me?” 

Jack nodded.

Bitty waved at Scot, already heading down the hall. “I’ll see you later?”

Scot waved back, farewells cut short as Bitty disappeared around the corner.

By the time they reached the blessedly empty locker room, Jack was laughing. Bitty whacked him playfully on the chest, letting his hand rest there just a little too long. Jack’s gaze was heavy and unyielding, and Bitty took a step back. But Jack moved forward, one step, then two, until he was toe to toe with Bitty.

“Hi.” He said, leaning down so his forehead rested against Bitty’s. “I missed you.” 

Bitty sighed. “Jack Zimmermann this is not the time or the place,” he said, but he let his arms wind around Jack’s neck anyway. 

“When we get back to the Haus, then,” Jack whispered, breath hot on Bitty’s ear. 

Bitty groaned into Jack’s collar. “Lord have mercy, the things you do to me,” he mumbled. “Come on, you,” he said, using every bit of strength in his body to untangle himself from Jack. “Your fans await.”

Jack grabbed Bitty’s phone off the bench and followed him out of the locker room, tapping him playfully on the ass as he caught up. “Only one fan I wanna see,” he said and winked again.

Bitty yelped and swatted at him, but Jack just laughed and jogged backwards out of Faber, cold Massachusetts air making his cheeks rosy, dimpled and delightful as he grinned back at Bitty.

“I’ve created a monster,” Bitty said, shaking his head.

*

They were halfway back to the Haus, Bitty hunched over and wishing he’d remembered a warmer coat, when Jack nudged him with an elbow. “Scot seems nice,” he said.

“He is a delight,” Bitty said. “It was so nice of him to come to the game!”

“He meet the guys yet?”

“He met Lardo a while back, and Ransom and Holster tonight.” Bitty groaned. “Oh, I almost forgot- they’ve named the poor boy Skoosh,” Bitty said. 

“Skoosh?” Jack asked. “What’s his last name again?”

“LaTour.”

Jack huffed out a chuckle. “How’d they get to Skoosh?”

“Scot said that’s what his dad calls him.”

“His dad plays hockey?” Jack asked, surprised.

Bitty scoffed. “He’s from Toronto, Jack. Why is it so surprising to everyone that he knows about hockey?”

“It’s not- I mean,” Jack started, then paused. “Has he ever talked about hockey before?”

“Of course!” Bitty said. “He’s just usually making fun of it.”

Jack laughed. “Give us a break then, Bits. I’m sure Ransom and Holster meant well.”

“I know,” Bitty pouted. “Maybe I like having Scot to myself, though!”

“You live in the hockey Haus, Bitty. There is no keeping anything to yourself.”

Bitty made a choked sort of noise, and Jack sighed.

“Yeah, I know,” he said.

“No.” Bitty said firmly. “No, sweetheart, I totally understand why this-“ he flapped a hand in the air between him and Jack. “Why we can’t tell them. It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Jack said quietly. He shook his head. “I hate it.”

“Jack…”

“I do, I hate it. Do you know how many times I’ve lied to Shitty since May?” Jack’s words were louder, quicker, frustration building, and Bitty looked around at the still empty street, just in case. “I’ve never lied to Shitty,” Jack said, angry, and Bitty fought the urge to reach out and touch him. 

“We both agreed it was for the best,” Bitty said. “Until you’d settled in.”

“I hate this.” Jack sounded defeated, and Bitty wanted to cry.

“Jack, honey, we don’t have to do it this way,” he started. “We could-“

“What?” Jack asked, voice cracking. “What could we do?”

Bitty’s mouth opened, and then closed, and he wished more than anything that he could take Jack’s hand, wrap him up in a hug and run his fingers through his hair and kiss away the frown that had forced its way onto his face. But they were still outside, and could hear the sounds of the Haus party kicking off, and they were lying to their friends and Bitty hated it too.

“We’ll figure something out,” Bitty said, soft and determined. “We will. I love you, and we will figure this out.”

Jack’s eyes widened, and his face softened, and Bitty smiled weakly.

“I love you, too,” Jack said after a moment, and Bitty nodded, mood lifting. 

“Let’s go make out,” Bitty said firmly, and Jack laughed, surprised. Bitty watched as his anger settled into something quieter, and led him the last few blocks to the Haus, where their friends would welcome them with big smiles and cold beers, chirping them both about taking so long to arrive. Jack and Bitty would make their excuses, find their way one by one to Bitty’s bedroom, and forget about the rest of the world for a while. And for right now, that would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter every Wednesday. Today's chapter brought to you by "It All Comes Back" by the Original Cast of Fun Home.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f6Cn2gmQJ5A
> 
> If you want to watch me cry about Star Trek, you can find me on tumblr as achoo-gesundheit.
> 
> Thanks a million for reading, and know that kudos and comments bring me joy. <3


	2. Chapter 2

At the end of November, Bitty, Lardo, Ransom, and Holster bundled up and trekked down to the Samwell Arena Theater, a smaller, rounder, and less prestigious version of the Samwell Auditorium, to see Scot perform in a fellow theater major’s senior thesis project. They were all wary. 

“Did the Skoosh tell you what this was about?” Ransom asked, walking backwards across the bridge so he could face downwind. 

“Not really,” Bitty admitted, words muffled behind the scarf wrapped six ways around his face. “It’s a comedy, I think?”

“Well, at least there’s that,” Lardo said, hat pulled down to nearly cover her eyes.

Holster had his hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill. “Remind me again why we thought this would be a good idea?”

“We’re being supportive!” Bitty shouted through his scarf. “Scot came to our opening game, we’re gonna see his play.”

“Technically,” Lardo pointed out, “It’s not his play. It’s Dave the trench coat wearing juggler’s play.”

“Oh my God,” Ransom said, kicking the door to the library and holding it open. “That guy who stands outside the dining hall every Saturday and like, flings flaming batons in the air?”

The group shouldered their way into Founder’s, weaving through the stacks to the side exit, savoring the brief moment of warmth. 

“You sure it’s a comedy, Bits?” Holster whispered.

“That’s what Scot said,” Bitty answered, but was cut off as Ransom pushed open another door and the wind howled in, ruffling pages and disturbing the frantic finals students. 

“Sorry!” Ransom mouthed at the glares pointed in their direction, letting the door close quietly behind them. 

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Lardo said through gritted teeth as they walked the last few yards to the student center. 

“Yes, thank you, Lardo,” Bitty said, wrangling the scarf from his face as soon as the warmth of central heating began to kick in. “Positive attitudes, everyone.”

Ransom and Holster exchanged a look, and Lardo smirked. 

“Y’all ready?”

Ransom shook his head, and beside him Holster muttered, “Onward, then, into the abyss.”

They found seats near the back, Ransom and Holster awkwardly collapsing their hulking frames onto plastic folding chairs. There was a pretty good crowd there, Bitty thought, for a Thursday night in the middle of finals, and then the lights went down and Scot walked on stage. 

After that, Bitty couldn’t quite be sure of the actual progression of events. But there might have been some singing, there was definitely some kissing, and the lights were dimmed but Bitty was pretty sure there was a sex scene somewhere in there. There was also a startling lack of laughter given the production’s billing as a comedy. 

By the time the lights went up an hour later, Bitty felt deeply unsettled. He looked over to see Lardo looking similarly upset, Ransom looking confused, and Holster asleep in his chair. 

“This,” Lardo finally said, breaking the silence, “is perhaps why we don’t come here often.”

Bitty nodded in stunned agreement. 

A minute later, Scot appeared from behind a set piece. He waved at them, but was stopped every step or so to talk to someone he knew. When he was a few paces away, Ransom nudged Holster awake, and he sat up with a jolt. 

“Aw, good on you guys for coming!” Scot said, smiling bright underneath smudges of stage makeup. 

“You were wonderful,” Bitty said, giving him a hug. “I’m not sure what any of that was about, but you were great!”

“Yeah, well done, Skoosh,” Ransom said, and Holster grunted his sleepy approval.

“At least there were no flaming batons,” Lardo said. 

“Fire hazard,” Scot explained, gesturing to the stage behind him. “Couldn’t get approval.”

There was a moment of stunned silence and then they all burst out laughing. 

“I need a drink,” Lardo finally said.

“Amen to that, sister,” Bitty agreed. 

They began re-applying winter wear, sweaters, then scarves, then gloves, jackets, hats. Scot watched them all shuffle toward the exit, when Ransom turned around. 

“You comin’, Skoosh?”

Grinning, Scot grabbed his coat and followed them out.

*

Two weeks later and finals were finished, a fresh blanket of snow covered the grounds of Samwell, and Bitty was packed to head home to Georgia. Reassured that he’d be ready to go when his taxi arrived that evening, Bitty grabbed his skates to meet Scot at Faber. He was on his way out the door when he found Ransom and Holster in the living room, wedged on the floor with their heads on the sofa cushion and their feet propped up on waiting suitcases. 

“Bits!” Holster shouted as he walked by. “Where you off to?”

“To meet Scot,” Bitty replied, tugging on his coat.

“Skoosh?” Ransom said, lifting his head awkwardly off the sofa. 

“Yeah, we’re gonna skate one last time before we have to leave.”

“Oh my God,” Holster said, scrambling to a sitting position. “Please take us with you.”

“What?” Bitty asked, hand already on the door.

“We are so bored,” Holster wailed, flinging on his coat and throwing a pair of shoes at Ransom. 

“Aren’t you guys leaving?” Bitty asked, frowning.

Ransom, who had emerged from his sofa yoga pose, hopped from one foot to the other to tie his shoes. “The dipshit we’re carpooling with doesn’t want to leave until tonight. Avoid traffic or something.”

“We have whole hours to kill, and Chowder is already gone, and there’s no food, and we already packed the video games,” Holster explained, dejected.

“Well…” Bitty started, but Holster and Ransom were fully dressed, skates on their shoulders, eyes pleading, and Bitty laughed. “Alright fine!”

“Score!” Ransom shouted, tearing out of the Haus. 

“But be nice to Scot!” Bitty called after him. 

“Thanks, Bits!” Holster said, taking off after Ransom.

“And we get to the pick the music!” Bitty yelled.

“Sure, brah!” Holster shouted over his shoulder.

“But if that little punk plays Christmas music again I’m gonna check his ass,” Ransom added.

Bitty groaned and grabbed his skates, kicking the door shut behind him. 

Ransom and Holster beat him to Faber, and Bitty met them in the locker room, stretching out before lacing up their skates. Bitty quickly shed his winter gear and joined them, and they all clacked their way out towards the ice, where Scot was already skating – with someone else. The stranger was leaning against the sideboards, his back to Bitty and the boys, talking at Scot as he glided around the rink. As Scot came around a turn he spotted them, waving them down. The stranger turned and waved as well, probably too old to be a student, but still too far away to identify. 

“Yo, Skoosh!” Holster called out as they hobbled towards the ice. “This your old man?”

Scot skidded to a neat stop next to the man, who turned around to glare at Holster.

“Did you just call me old?” He said. “Why has everyone been talking about how old I am?” He turned back to Scot. “Did you tell them I was old?”

“Holy shit,” Ransom whispered, and next to him Holster was staring, wide-eyed. 

“Hey guys,” Scot said, draping an arm around the man’s shoulders. “Meet my dad.”

“Holy shit,” Ransom said again, and the man – Scot’s dad – chuckled. 

“Eric McNally,” he said, sticking out a hand. “Good to meet you boys.”

Numbly, Bitty reached up to shake his hand.

Behind him, Ransom’s voice had gone strangely high. “We know who the fuck you are,” he whispered.

Holster shook his head in stunned disbelief. 

“Eric Bittle,” Bitty introduced himself, manners winning out over shock. He looked over to Scot, who was grinning behind his dad, chin resting on his shoulder. “So,” Bitty said, “when you said your dad could play hockey…”

“Of course he can fucking play!” Ransom wailed from behind Bitty. “He played for the Leaf’s when I was like six years old, man.”

“Jesus, now I do feel old,” Eric mumbled.

Ransom was whacking a dumbstruck Holster on the arm. “That’s Eric fucking McNally!” he breathed.

“First Ryan, now these guys - what is it with you and befriending vulgar hockey players?” Eric asked Scot, tilting his head back to look at him.

Scot laughed. 

Bitty had no idea who Ryan was, but he surged forward, apologetic. “Please forgive these boys, I don’t usually take them out in public.”

“This is so much better than couch yoga,” Holster finally whispered.

Eric laughed now too, quiet where Scot was boisterous, and heaved himself off the sideboards. “So you guys wanna skate, or what?”

Bitty blinked, and was nearly bowled over as Ransom and Holster tripped themselves onto the ice, sticks in hand. 

Scot skated off after them, and Eric turned back to Bitty. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bitty. I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, smiling.

“That’s funny, I haven’t heard a thing about you!” Bitty replied, glaring daggers at Scot’s back across the rink. 

Eric laughed that quiet laugh again and cocked his head towards the ice. “Come on,” he said, gliding backwards on his skates. “Let’s see if this old man can keep up.” 

Bitty watched him turn in a quick circle, picking up speed before reaching over with his stick to grab the puck from Ransom, who yelped and nearly fell over. Bitty stepped onto the ice, and the game was on. Even three against two, Scot and Eric still beat them handily. 

“Alright, alright!” Eric finally said, slowing to a stop. “I’m out, you guys. Old Man McNally’s done for the day.”

They all hobbled off the rink, collapsing onto benches to unlace their skates. 

“You guys play great,” Eric told them between pants. “It’s no wonder you’re nationally ranked.”

“Dude, you still play amazing for someone who retired like, fifteen years ago,” Holster told him, tugging off a sock. 

“Skoosh, bro,” Ransom said, slinging an arm around his back. “Why are you not on the hockey team?”

Scot blushed, and shrugged. “I learned a long time ago that competitive sporting is not my calling,” he said, and Eric chuckled. 

“Come on then,” Eric said, hauling himself to stand again. “I owe you boys a beer.”

“Fuck yes,” Ransom muttered, following him out of the locker room. Scot flashed a grin at Bitty and bounced out after them. 

Holster leaned down. “Jack would lose his shit if he knew Eric McNally was about to buy us all a beer.”

Bitty laughed, waving Holster off towards the exit. He looked around the empty locker room, still feeling the odd absence of Jack in its walls. They had planned to see each other over the break, but they both would be home for Christmas and then the Falconers had a long stretch of away games in January. Out of habit, Bitty pulled up the team schedule on his phone, scrolling to see where Jack would be in January instead of snuggled up with him. It was then that Scot poked his head back in the door.

“You alright, Bitty?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Bitty said. “I’ll be right-“ He stopped scrolling, eyes lighting on the maple leaf symbol next to the word Toronto, “there! Scot,” he said, looking up. “What are your plans for winter break?”

*

On December 30th, sun just beginning to set, Bitty touched down in Toronto to find Scot giddy and grinning at the arrivals gate.

“You’re gonna love it here,” Scot said, giving him a quick hug and grabbing his duffel. He began to weave them professionally through the airport throng like it was an Olympic sport. “Sam’s really into experimental baking at the moment.” This thought was punctuated with sarcastic, one handed air-quotes from Scot, and Bitty snorted, clutching his messenger bag a little tighter as he dodged a haggard looking family of five.

Bitty had no idea who Sam was, but the more pressing questions was, “What do you mean by experimental, exactly?”

Scot shouldered through an exit marked “Public Transit” and took off at a sprint, pulling Bitty onto a bus headed downtown. It took off in a lurch the minute the doors closed, and Bitty was flung backwards into Scot, who laughed and shoved him towards a seat. “Let’s just say I’ve been eating a lot of quinoa,” Scot said, shoving his duffel under the seat and flopping down next to Bitty. 

“Oh dear,” Bitty said, frowning, as the bus sped off towards the airport exit. “We’ll have to see about that.”

Thirty minutes later, and Toronto was streaming by the windows in vibrant color, Christmas lights still adorning city buildings and trees still twinkling in windows. Snow fell in marshmallow drifts onto wet pavement, turning to slush beneath the tires of the bus. By the time they reached their transfer, Scot was practically vibrating in his seat. Bitty followed him off the airport shuttle and onto a local bus headed north, sun finally disappearing completely beneath the horizon. Bitty watched the night pass by him outside, trying to imagine where he might be on the map he’d glanced at briefly during the plane ride. He, too, was full of anxious energy, but of an entirely different sort. He was going to see Jack tomorrow. When the bus screeched to a halt at Clinton St., Bitty was jerked out of his seat once again, disembarking onto the sidewalk with a squelch. He was beginning to regret not wearing his boots. 

Scot sent a friendly wave to the bus driver as they sped off, and began trudging through the accumulating snow down the quiet street. People’s lights were beginning to come on, houses illuminated in the darkness, casting an eerie, early evening glow on the snow banks. Bitty burrowed a little deeper into his scarf, breath huffing out as fog in front of him. Halfway down the street, Scot hopped a snow bank and stomped up to a red painted front door, Christmas wreath still hanging from the knocker. Bitty stumbled his way up onto the porch and stamped his chilled feet on the cement to knock off as much snow as he could. Scot fished around in his bag for his keys, pulling them out with a triumphant “Hah!” before pushing through the door. Bitty dragged himself in after him, closing the door against the increasing chill, and stood awkwardly in the foyer. 

Scot’s house was nice – nicer than his home in Georgia. It was immaculately decorated, painted in professional neutrals, with expensive looking art hanging from the walls, but it looked lived in nonetheless. There was a pair of boots abandoned by the door, and Scot kicked his off to join them. There were family photos hung in neat arrangements: Scot and Eric in matching hockey jerseys smiling in an unfamiliar rink, on the beach somewhere, faces shiny with sun, and a picture of them at Scot’s graduation, Eric’s arm around Scot’s shoulder on one side, and a man Bitty didn’t recognize on the other. He leaned forward to get a closer look, but Scot was plowing ahead. Bitty quickly toed off his wet sneakers and followed him. 

“Just leave your stuff there!” Scot said over his shoulder, dropping his bag, coat, and scarf as he went.

Bitty caught up to him in the living room, where a guy about their own age was draped over the sofa, socked feet hanging over the armrest. 

“Welcome to the queerest house in Canada,” he said, raising a hand in greeting.

Bitty blinked. 

“Scot,” said a voice from the kitchen. “You left your garbage on the couch again.”

“Hey!” Scot shouted back. “I’m not the one who gave him a key!”

A man poked his head around the doorframe. “I didn’t give him a key!”

There was silence, and several pairs of eyes swiveled back to the guy on the sofa. 

He shrugged. “The kitchen window was open.”

The other man sighed and asked, “Ryan, would you like a key?”

“Only if you don’t want my boots in your sink,” Ryan said, tilting his head back to look at him. The man raised a questioning eyebrow. Ryan shrugged again. “I slipped.”

The man rolled his eyes before disappearing behind the door again. Scot bounced over to the couch, wedging himself between Ryan’s legs and the backrest. 

“Ryan, this is Eric Bittle,” Scot said, pointing. “Bitty, this is Ryan.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet ya,” Bitty said, shuffling his sock-clad feet nervously on the carpet. 

Ryan shot a smirk to Scot, who whacked him on the shoulder, mouthing something Bitty didn’t catch. Ryan nodded at Bitty. “Likewise.”

“Ryan lives down the street,” Scot supplied helpfully.

“But you’d never know from how often I find him on my sofa,” the man from the kitchen said, reemerging with a laundry basket that he left by the stairs. He offered a hand to Bitty. “Eric right? I’m Sam. Glad to finally meet you,” he said with a smile, then his brow furrowed. “Do you prefer Eric or Bitty?”

Bitty shook his hand, still valiantly trying to piece together the family tree of people he’d met so far. “Bitty is fine,” he said politely.

“My husband tells me you’re quite the skater,” Sam said.

“Your-“ Bitty started, confused, but Ryan had sat up on the couch.

“You skate?” He asked, skeptical. “What, like pirouettes or some shit?”

Scot whacked him on the head. “He’s on the hockey team, dickhead.”

Ryan shoved Scot back into the cushions. “Bullshit,” he said.

“He plays forward,” Scot said, retaliating by flicking Ryan in the face. “He played on Zimmermann’s line.”

There was now an all-out wrestling match happening on the couch, and Bitty stood helplessly next to Sam, who shook his head. “I really thought they’d grow out of this,” he said to Bitty, who watched as Scot trapped Ryan in a headlock before Ryan kicked him in the ribs. “Honestly. We just had that couch reupholstered.”

Bitty’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but he was rescued from an attempt at responding by the sound of the front door opening. He heard the beginning of a greeting immediately followed by an impressive amount of cursing as someone tripped, presumably over the pile of stuff Scot had left on the floor. By the time Eric McNally made it into the living room, his suit was rumpled and his tie askew. He looked to Scot and Ryan still making a go of it on the couch, exchanged a long-suffering look with Sam, and then whistled so loud Bitty was sure they could hear it back at the airport. 

Scot and Ryan stilled, Ryan with a hand clenched in Scot’s curls, Scot with his legs wrapped around Ryan’s torso. Eric raised an eyebrow. “What did we tell you boys about getting your rocks off in the living room?”

“Eugh, god, McNally,” Ryan said, untangling himself from Scot. “What the hell?”

“Nice to see you too, Ryan,” Eric said happily. He turned to Bitty. “Bittle!” he said. “Welcome to Canada.” He stuck out a hand, which Bitty shook, manners going on autopilot as Eric snuck an arm around Sam’s waist, tugging him closer to kiss him hello. Sam smiled, hand coming up to rest on Eric’s neck for a quick moment before they separated. “How was your holiday?” Eric asked Bitty, whose eyes had widened to a shocking circumference.

Ryan snorted from the sofa, and Scot sidled up next to Bitty to whisper, grinning, “Payback is a dish best served cold, my friend.”

Eric laughed and Sam rolled his eyes as Bitty turned to glare at Scot. Ryan groaned. “Dude, you are literally murdering Shakespeare right now.”

“Ryan, I can’t be literally murdering Shakespeare,” Scot replied. “You mean metaphorically.”

“Oh god,” Sam said, pulling away from Eric. “And here everyone told us we’d miss our kid when he left for college.”

Eric laughed again, throwing an arm around Bitty’s shoulder and guiding him to the kitchen. Sam began picking up Scot’s abandoned things, throwing them on top of Scot as the argument continued.

“I meant literally metaphorically,” Ryan said, as a hat was forced back onto Scot’s head.

“If something’s literal then it can’t be metaphorical.” A scarf was draped on Scot’s shoulder.

“Are we speaking literally here, or metaphorically?” Ryan said, then laughed as Sam threw Scot’s coat over his head, muffling his retort.

“I am metaphorically going to kill both of you if this conversation doesn’t end literally right now,” Sam said, shoving the duffel into Scot’s arms and pushing him towards the stairs. “Take all of Bitty’s stuff too, while you’re at it!” He yelled after him. 

Ryan stood up from the sofa to retrieve his boots, tugging them on as he walked past Sam to the kitchen.

“Front door,” Sam said, grabbing him by the back of his coat and spinning him back towards the door. “Stay out of my windows.”

Ryan flipped him the bird over his shoulder, shouting his farewells to Scot up the stairs, before trudging out the front door, leaving it open behind him. 

Sam shut it with a sigh, before joining Eric and Bitty in the kitchen. 

“I’m so sorry, you must think I’m so rude! Scot said he lived with his dad, but he never said anything about-“ Bitty was rambling, making vague hand gestures in the air in front of him, and Eric was trying valiantly not to laugh. 

“About having more than one?” Sam asked, sitting down next to Eric at the table. “That’s one phase he did grow out of, thank god.”

Eric laughed. “Oh god, everywhere we went. The mall, the movies, school – hockey practice for fuck’s sake!”

“Have you met Eric, my gay dad? And Sam, my other gay dad? They’re gay. Together.” Sam said in a whining falsetto, which Bitty gathered to be an imitation of young Scot. He giggled despite himself. 

“He probably outed us to half of Toronto before he even turned thirteen,” Eric said, smiling. “Little punk.”

“So you’re…” Bitty started, then stopped, unsure what was appropriate conversation when you’d just been introduced to your college friend’s gay, ex-NHL playing dad and his husband. He had a husband. Bitty had so many questions. 

After a few moments of increasingly awkward silence, Sam cleared his throat. “Bitty, we know Scot sort of threw you under the bus here, so if you have any questions, feel free to ask.” Next to him, Eric nodded.

Bitty took a breath. “So you’re out then? Like, properly out?”

“To our families, friends, neighbors, coworkers, and the federal government, yes,” Sam said.

Bitty’s eyes turned to Eric, who had a rueful smile plastered on his face.

“To the NHL, no.”

Sam’s hand made it’s way to the back of Eric’s neck again, a solid, tangible comfort, and Bitty envied them that. But, for the first time, Bitty was looking at this life, this house, this comfort, and thinking he could have it.

“I’m gay,” Bitty said, and Eric looked like he was about to say something snarky but Sam gave him a shove and his mouth snapped shut. Bitty continued. “My boyfriend and I-“ He couldn’t out Jack, that wasn’t his place, but he was sitting in front of a gay, ex-NHL player, and his mind was racing with possibilities. “We’re not out yet. He’s not out yet,” Bitty corrected. “His job-“ Bitty struggled to find a way to explain without giving up the game entirely. “Well, he’s worried about how it might affect his career.” 

Eric nodded. “I’ve been there. It’s tough. But I have to say, the only changes to my job after I came out were good ones.” He grinned. “I got to start bringing Sam to all the company holiday parties!”

“God help me.” Sam said sardonically. “You should have stayed in the closet.”

Eric laughed – an open, genuine delight that Bitty was still getting used to. 

“He really does love me,” Eric said, jerking his head at Sam and throwing Bitty a wink.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Our son’s upstairs probably redecorating the bathroom, and we are now big gay mentors to college hockey players.” He stood up. “I’m opening a bottle of wine.”

Eric snorted, and Bitty blushed right up to his ears. Eric socked him lightly on the shoulder. “Hang in there, kid. It only gets better from here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter every Wednesday. Today's chapter brought to you by "Its the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" by Andy Williams, aka Scot's favorite Christmas song. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFtb3EtjEic
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left comments or kudos last week - you all get a cookie. 
> 
> Questions? Comments? Praise? Keep the cookie party going, and find me on tumblr as achoo-gesundheit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies in advance to any Canadians and/or hockey fans who I offend with my lack of knowledge about Canada or hockey.

“Jack?” Bitty whispered into the phone, clutching it tighter, as if someone might be standing outside in the hall, pressing their ear to the door of the guest room. “Jack, they’re gay.”

“Wha-?” came the muffled reply. “Bitty, what time izzit?”

Bitty glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. “Two forty-seven. Jack, they’re gay!”

“ _Crisse_ ,” Jack mumbled, groaning. “Bitty, what are you talking about?”

“Scot’s dads!”

“Scot’s- what?”

“Oh my god, Jack. Scot has two dads, they are married, and they are one-hundred percent homosexual.”

Bitty could hear Jack’s frown over the phone. “I thought you said Scot’s dad was Eric McNally?”

“He is.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “ _Bonyeu_ ,” Jack hissed out, awake now. “Eric McNally?”

“I swear by my MooMaw’s apple pie,” Bitty said, then, after a beat too long without a response, “Jack?”

“No, yeah, I’m here, I just- god, Eric McNally!” Jack was laughing. “Why’d Scot wait so long to tell you?”

“Scot didn’t tell me,” Bitty said, still awestruck. “Eric just walked in and kissed his husband, casual as anything. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.”

“What? Walked in where? At Samwell?” Jack asked, more confused than ever. Then, “Wait, you call him Eric?”

Jack couldn’t see, but a blush was quickly building on Bitty’s cheeks. “I’m at Scot’s house,” Bitty said, quickly. “In Toronto.”

Jack didn’t say anything for a long while. “You’re in Toronto?” he asked finally.

“Yeah,” Bitty said, hunching his shoulders and burrowing a little deeper into the pillows. “Surprise?”

“Bitty-“ Jack started. “I thought- we said-.” His voice was getting hoarse. “You’re really in Toronto?”

“Mmhmm.” Bitty smiled.

“That means-“

“I’ll see you Friday,” Bitty cut in, grinning now.

“I can’t believe you’re in Toronto,” Jack said, and Bitty swore he could hear his smile through the phone. “I can’t believe I’m going to see you in Toronto.”

“More to the point,” Bitty said, “you will also see Scot and his gay dads, namely Eric McNally and his husband, Sam Delancey.”

“Shit,” Jack said.

Bitty snorted. “You got that right, honey.”

*

New Year’s Eve at the LaTour’s, it seemed, was something of an affair. Scot had been decorating since lunch, crepe paper and shining banners draped along the banister and over picture frames, party hats and noisemakers strewn on every available surface. Bitty had been pulled into the kitchen, and could not have been more delighted.

“It’s something of an odd family tradition,” Sam explained, as he stirred together a filling for stuffed mushrooms. “Evolved mostly out of laziness.”

Bitty laughed, pinching puff pastry together into neat pockets. “Lazy wasn’t the first thing coming to my mind,” he said, gesturing around the kitchen at the six different projects he and Sam were juggling.

Sam blinked, as if he’d just realized the expanse of food they were preparing. “Honestly,” he said, turning back to Bitty. “It didn’t start out this way.” Sam sighed. “The first New Year’s Scot spent with us, Eric and I were still pretty new at this.” He began spooning filling into waiting mushrooms. “We had just thrown this big Christmas party, that was actually supposed to be a going away party, but then Eric was, well, he was Eric.” Sam smiled, slow and real, and Bitty couldn’t help but return it. “Anyway, we spent the first week after Christmas filling out adoption papers and legal change of address forms.” Sam chuckled. “By the time we got to New Year’s, neither of us had another party in us. But Scot,” he shook his head. “Eric took him to the store to get something special for dinner and they came back with six boxes of frozen hors d’oeuvres.” He slid the tray of mushrooms into the oven before shrugging at Bitty.

“I like it,” Bitty declared.

“We are men comfortable in our love of appetizers,” Sam said, serious, and Bitty snorted.

Scot bounced into the kitchen. “Please, please tell me we have forgone the quinoa for tonight’s festivities,” he said.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yes, Scot, I promise there is nothing with any nutritional value on the menu for this evening.”

“Thank god,” Scot said, plopping down on a barstool next to Bitty. “Whatcha makin’?”

“Hopefully they’re gonna be s’mores pockets,” Bitty said, lining them up on a sheet pan. “Just a bit of puff pastry with a little something I whipped up earlier, featuring my MooMaw’s famous homemade marshmallow sauce.”

“Sam, I think I’m in love,” Scot wailed, throwing himself onto the counter.

“Oh, hush, you!” Bitty said, blushing. He swatted at Scot. “Make yourself useful or get out of the kitchen!”

“I second that,” Sam said.

“Fine, fine.” Scot heaved himself off the counter. “How can I help?”

When Eric shuffled in several minutes later, sweaty and panting from a run, Scot, Sam, and Bitty were sashaying around the kitchen, Jimmy Soul blaring from Scot’s laptop speakers. Eric leaned against the doorway, watching as Bitty twirled around the table, sprinkling cheese onto potato skins. At the stove, Scot and Sam were hip bumping, stirring something along to the music. Eric huffed out a laugh, weaving his way over to the stove to hip check Scot out of the way. He kissed Sam hello, matching smiles pressed together, and Bitty watched from the table, something like longing clutching in his chest. But then Scot was back, knocking Eric to the side, and squealing when Eric got an arm around his neck and a fist in his hair to give him a noogie.

“Gross, god, get off!” Scot said, shoving him. “You stink!”

Eric leaned in closer so his armpit was in Scot’s face. “What was that?” he asked, looking around. “Sam, did you hear something?”

“You are literally suffocating me with your stench right now!”

“Skoosh!” Eric said, looking down in mock surprise. “Didn’t even see you there.”

Scot finally yanked himself out from under Eric’s arm, hands flying to his now unkempt hair.

“Do you know how long it took me to get my hair right this morning?” Scot whined.

“Yes,” Eric said accepting a glass of water from Sam and taking a sip. “You locked me out of the bathroom for twenty minutes.”

Scot’s eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah? Well now I have to go fix it.” He sauntered out of the kitchen. “Hope you weren’t planning on showering any time soon!” He shouted over his shoulder.

“Scot!” Eric yelled, sliding his glass onto the counter and taking off after him. There was a ruckus on the stairs, followed by a muffled thump and a screech that had to be Scot.

Bitty smiled at Sam, who shook his head, but there was a smile creeping at the corners of his mouth, too.

*

By seven o’clock everyone was clean, coifed, and the ovens were set on warm. Eric had been stoking the fireplace, and there was now a warm glow radiating out from the living room. The TV was turned to New Year’s Eve coverage, volume on mute, and they all had a glass of wine in hand. At seven-fourteen, the doorbell began to ring, and Bitty was introduced to Eric’s sister, her husband, their son, the next-door neighbor, her son, his wife, as well as several coworkers of both Sam and Eric. Ryan trudged in last, button down shirt un-tucked and socks unmatched, and returned Scot’s hug more heartily than Bitty might have expected.

Bitty graciously accepted compliments on the food, waving everyone off with a smile and southern charm, eventually finding himself deep in conversation with Nula, a friend of Eric’s who was passionate about figure skating. This led to demonstrations, which led to musical demonstrations, which inevitably gave way to dancing. Bitty had lost track of how much wine he’d had to drink. He was lightheaded in the best way, jumping up and down with Scot to the beat, flush crawling up his cheeks. At the next pause in the music he snapped a quick selfie with Scot to post to twitter. _New Year’s Eve with new friends!_ he tweeted. Scot beamed, throwing an arm over his shoulder and hauling him back in to dance.

It was eleven thirty seven when his phone pinged with an incoming text.

_Looks like you’re having fun_ , Jack said.

Bitty grinned. _Not as much fun as Scot_ , he sent back, followed by a picture of Scot, feather boa wrapped around his neck, draped over Ryan’s lap, planting a messy kiss on his cheek. _You’re not sitting alone in your hotel room are you?_

Bitty watched the dot dot dot on his phone before the text came in. _I’m out with Tater_ , Jack replied. A picture appeared underneath, Tater waving frenetically at the camera, ever-present smile plastered on his face. _He agreed to drink for the both of us._

_Generous of him_ , Bitty replied.

Jack sent back a winky emoji.

_I gotta go_ , Jack said. _Stipulation of the agreement, limited phone time._

Bitty sent him back a frowny face. _Wish you were here._

_Me too._

The euphoria of too many glasses of wine was starting to morph into maudlin sentiment, and Bitty forced himself to smile. _Give Tater a kiss for me at midnight!_

Bitty got another picture of Tater in response to that, looking like a kid on Christmas morning. _He has never been more excited._

Bitty laughed, sent Jack a string of three kissy faces and a see you soon!, and determinedly put his phone away. They were three minutes to midnight, and Scot was scooched up next to Ryan on the sofa, head on his shoulder. Bitty had asked, earlier in the day, if there was a story there. “Just friends,” Scot had replied, a resigned sort of smile on his face, and Bitty was reminded of Ransom and Holster, their constant and confusing companionship. Across the room, Sam and Eric were leaning into each other, wineglasses in the hands that weren’t wrapped around the other’s waist. All around him, people seemed to have paired off, and as the countdown began, Bitty’s heart sank. He wondered when he’d be able to start a New Year off by kissing Jack, if it would be alone, tangled up together in an apartment or a hotel room, or if they’d be at a party, surrounded by friends. He wondered if this was something they would get to have, something that was promised. When the clock struck midnight, Bitty made a resolution. He picked up a noisemaker, drank in the happiness around him, watched Sam kiss Eric softly on the mouth, and let himself hope.

*

The next night found them all at the Air Canada Centre downtown, and Bitty didn’t know if he’d ever had so much fun at a hockey game. To be fair, Jack’s opener with the Falcs came close, but watching a game with a professional hockey player, even a retired one, was on a whole different level. For one, they were sitting in a VIP box, so high up that Jack was distinguishable from the other players only by the number on the back of his sweater. Add to that Eric and Scot’s enthusiasm for the sport, which rivaled even Ransom and Holster, and you got one of the most memorable hockey games Bitty had ever attended.

Eric, Scot, and Bitty all stood pressed against the window of the box, voices loud enough to carry through the glass. Bitty knew he’d be hoarse later from all the screaming, but he had to compete with the ongoing praise of the Leafs from Eric and Scot. Sam sat behind them in one of the plush chairs, nursing a glass of wine and occasionally providing a scathing comment about one team or another, his loyalty switching to whoever was ahead on the scoreboard.

At one point Scot turned around to shout at him. “Just pick one!” He said, exasperated.

Sam shrugged. “This way I’ll win no matter what.”

Scot threw his hands up in the air, turning back in time to see a Leaf’s player get checked into the boards, and was once again consumed with yelling obscenities at the Falconers. Bitty giggled, and Sam smirked at him. He calmly took another sip of wine, before pointing past Bitty to the ice. Bitty whirled around in time to see Jack whip the puck past the Toronto defenders, the goal horn blaring red as the Falconers stole the lead. Bitty laughed as Jack did his celly, looking up towards the boxes as he skated back to center ice. Bitty’s heart beat a little faster in his chest, and he began to count the minutes as they ticked down on the scoreboard, each one a moment closer to seeing Jack.

The Falconers won, Jack scoring another goal in the third to secure the lead, and there were familiar butterflies in Bitty’s stomach. They made their way slowly out of the stadium, stopping often as Eric got recognized. He always smiled, signed what they offered, even occasionally agreed to a selfie. During one such encounter, while they waited off to the side, Sam told Bitty, “He wasn’t always this friendly.”

Beside him, Scot snorted, “That’s for sure.”

Bitty watched Eric smile charmingly for another selfie. “What changed?” he asked.

Scot shrugged, but Sam spoke again, quietly. “He came out.”

Something tightened in Bitty’s chest, but then the fans were dispersing and Eric was waving them over. They left through a side door, piling into Eric’s SUV and taking off. They slowed down fifteen minutes later in front of a nondescript bar. A neon sign flashed OPEN in the window.

Sam and Eric were clearly regulars. The bartender greeted them by name, gesturing to a corner booth, which they gladly took. There were drinks all around, beer and wine, and Bitty’s heart was still pounding in his chest. He was sure they could all hear it, wedged as he was between Eric and Scot, and he took a sip of his beer in an effort to calm the fuck down, _I mean good heavens_. He was just starting to relax against Scot’s shoulder when the door opened and Jack walked in. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, his suit jacket hanging open, and his hair was still wet from his shower.

Bitty couldn’t breathe.

Jack looked around for a second before spotting them, grin blooming warm and wide on his face. He tamed it only slightly as he approached their table, and Bitty determinedly did not fling himself out of the booth and into his arms. It was a close thing, though. Eric and Sam both stood up to shake hands with Jack, introducing themselves and complimenting his game. Scot waved from behind the table, and Jack waved back. His eyes met Bitty’s, and he smiled. “Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” Bitty said back, smile pushing at his already reddening cheeks.

“Good to see you again, Skoosh,” Jack said, sliding onto the bench next to him.

Sam groaned. “Oh, not you, too,” he said.

“Sorry?” Jack asked, confused.

“That damn nickname,” Sam grumbled, and Eric laughed.

“I had been meaning to ask,” Jack said, turning to Scot. “Why Skoosh?”

“It’s all Eric’s fault!” Scot said.

“What isn’t?” Sam said.

“Billy used to call me Scoot,” Scot explained. “But Eric could never remember that. So he was always like, ‘What was it dumb Billy always called you? Scoop? Skoosh?’ and after that it just sort of stuck.”

Bitty and Jack exchanged a look, both just as confused, if not more so. “Pardon me, but who’s Billy?” Bitty asked.

“An asshole,” Eric said at the same time Sam said, “My brother.”

Sam rolled his eyes, and Bitty was still lost. “Your brother?”

“Billy was my mom’s ex-boyfriend,” Scot said. “When my mom died, he was still listed as my legal guardian.” He shrugged. “He was never exactly parental material.”

“Cuz he’s an asshole,” Eric said.

“Eric,” Sam chided, but there didn’t seem to be any real malice behind it.

Eric smirked. “Skoosh is a better nickname than Scoot anyway.”

Jack blinked, looking over at Bitty, but Bitty was still hazy on most of the details of Scot’s childhood. He shrugged helplessly. Jack chuckled, turning back to Eric. “Undoubtedly,” he agreed.

The conversation turned to hockey, Eric asking Jack about how he was liking the NHL, Scot gushing over the attractiveness of the Falconers in relation to the Leafs, with Sam chiming in now and again to provide commentary on the firmness of various players’ butts. Bitty sipped his beer and laughed along with them, dying to get Jack alone and kiss the smile off his lips.

Scot faded fast, his two beers no doubt compounding his lingering New Year’s hangover. By eleven o’clock his head was pillowed on folded arms, sleeves getting soggy from the rings of condensation on the table. Eric chuckled and Sam rolled his eyes, but they both stood up, Sam reaching over to drop a hand on the back of Scot’s neck. Jack slid out of the booth so Sam could tug Scot to standing, and waved at Bitty and Jack as he frog-marched him out of the bar. Eric lingered for a moment, watching them go, before turning back to Jack.

“513 Clinton Street,” Eric said, squeezing Jack’s shoulder for a minute before letting go. “Have him back by morning, eh?”

Jack flushed, and Bitty stared.

“Don’t wear him down too much there, Bitty,” Eric said, and Bitty blushed to match Jack’s. “Be safe you two,” he said, pointing between the two of them, and with a final wink he was gone, tossing a wave to the bartender as he left.

Bitty stared at Jack, who was resolutely not making eye contact. “Jack?”

Jack lifted his head to peek at Bitty. “Surprise?”

Bitty gasped. “Jack- Laurent- Zimmermann!” he said, punctuating each name with a smack to the shoulder.

Jack huffed out a laugh, reaching up to grab Bitty’s hand in his own, letting his thumb graze lightly over the knuckles. Bitty felt a zing go down his spine and his eyes flew around wildly, sure someone had to see, must be noticing the hulking NHL player caressing a man in the corner booth. No one was noticing. No one was even looking in their direction and Jack gave Bitty’s hand a tug, pulling him out from behind the table and leading him towards the door. He stuffed an inappropriately large amount of cash into the tip jar on the bar, nodding at the bartender before pulling Bitty outside.

“Jack, wait,” Bitty said, mind racing and heart threatening to beat out of his ribcage.

Jack was standing with one foot on the curb and one in the street, hand on the door of an unmarked black sedan, and he smiled. “Do you trust me?”

Bitty blinked, felt his legs wobble underneath him, and said, “Of course.”

“Then let’s go.”

Jack pulled open the door of the car, and Bitty slid into the backseat, hand purposefully brushing Jack’s thigh as he shimmied by him. He heard Jack suck in a rapid breath and smirked. A second later Jack slid in next to him, pulling the door shut and leaning forward to speak in rapid Quebecois to the driver. Then the car lurched forward and they sped away, city lights dim through the tinted windows. Jack leaned back so he was pressed up against Bitty’s side, and Bitty felt his hand tangle in his own.

“Sweetheart, where are we going?” Bitty asked, after several minutes of silent driving.

“It’s a surprise,” Jack whispered, mouth entirely too close to Bitty’s ear.

“Jack, honey, I’m not sure my heart can take any more surprises tonight.”

“It’s a good surprise, though,” Jack said, breath hot and even closer than before. “You’ll like it.”

“Are you-?” Bitty turned his head to look at Jack, all flushed cheeks and bedroom eyes, fingers tracing dizzying patterns on the back of Bitty’s hand. “Oh my god, are you drunk?”

Jack inhaled deeply from somewhere in the region of Bitty’s neck and chuckled. “Drunk on you.”

Bitty groaned. “You are a hot mess tonight,” he laughed, head dropping back against the seat as Jack continued to nuzzle into his collarbone. “I am in a strange car-“

“Limo,” Jack corrected, placing a kiss just under Bitty’s ear.

“-a strange limo with my hot mess of a boyfriend being driven around by a man who only speaks French-“

“I speak English as well, monsieur,” the driver said calmly, stopping at a red light.

Bitty fell off the seat. “Oh my god,” he whispered into the plush carpeting. “We’re in Toronto! If I wanted sassy, bi-lingual Frenchmen I would have gone to Montreal.” He glared up at Jack, who was laughing. “Or Providence.”

Jack laughed harder, hand clutched to his stomach, eyes closed in mirth. He was not drunk, Bitty realized. Drunk Jack was a solemn beast. This was buzzed Jack. Happy Jack. _In love Jack_ , Bitty thought, a spark of delight flaring bright in his chest. He heaved himself back onto the seat, but made sure to keep a careful distance between them. Jack immediately grabbed his hand again.

“Bitty,” he said, chuckles receding. “This is Martin.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bittle,” Martin said, eyes never wavering from the road.

“Please, call me Bitty,” Bitty said automatically. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, sir.” He shot Jack a dumbfounded look, and Jack swallowed the laughs threatening to escape again.

“Martin used to drive my dad,” Jack explained. “I’ve known him my whole life, pretty much.”

“You used to throw up in my car,” Martin said pleasantly, and this time it was Bitty’s turn to laugh.

Jack ducked his head, but he was smiling. “Not any more though, eh?”

Martin’s eyes appeared briefly in the rearview mirror. “Non, not any more.”

An odd sort of silence descended on the car, and Bitty squeezed Jack’s hand where it clutched his on the seat.

It was only a few minutes later when Martin slowed the car to a halt in a deserted parking lot. He reached back through the partition and handed Jack two towels, which Jack accepted with a quiet, “merci.” Then he was pulling Bitty out of the car.

Jack shut the door behind them and led Bitty toward the edge of the lot, where Bitty could just make out water, and possibly sand, although with the snow cover it was hard to tell.

“Are we at the beach?” Bitty asked, burrowing a little further into his scarf as the wind picked up.

“Cherry Beach, to be specific,” Jack confirmed. He stepped over the curb onto the beach, but Bitty stayed firmly on the pavement.

“It’s January!” Bitty cried. “In Canada!” He flailed wildly at Jack. “Why, in the name of all that is holy, are we at the beach?”

Jack grinned and dropped Bitty’s hand. He took off his gloves, sticking them into his coat pockets, then unbuttoned his suit coat and draped it carefully over a nearby picnic table. He began unbuttoning his shirt, and Bitty let out a noise that could only be described as a squeak. “There’s something of a tradition in Canada,” Jack explained, untying one shoe, and then the other, laying them both neatly beneath the picnic bench. “Of going for a dip on New Year’s Day.” He removed his socks, toes sinking slightly in the snow. He raised his eyebrows at Bitty in invitation.

Bitty laughed. “And how, exactly, did you think you’d be getting me, a warm-blooded, sun-loving, Georgia boy, into the frigid water of Lake Ontario? In January?”

Jack took his pants off.

Bitty choked.

“Don’t worry,” Jack said, holding out a hand. “I brought towels.” And then he tugged Bitty onto the beach.

“Oh good,” Bitty said, somewhat hysterically, as Jack began unzipping his parka. “He brought towels.” Jack unwound the scarf from around Bitty’s neck, cold hands sliding under the shoulders of his coat to slip it off. “If we die of hypothermia I’m going to haunt you forever,” Bitty said. He was already beginning to shiver. Jack unbuttoned his shirt, tugging at the sleeves, and Bitty reluctantly shrugged it off, pulling his undershirt off after it. He kicked his shoes off next to Jack’s one at a time, being careful to keep his socks out of the snow. There was a heated moment as Jack fumbled at his belt, a jolt of arousal shooting through Bitty as Jack finally got his zipper down, but then his pants were sliding down his legs and Bitty was reminded that he was fucking freezing.

Jack threw the pants onto the picnic table and twined his fingers with Bitty, who was hopping from foot to foot, quickly losing all feeling in his toes.

“I hate you,” Bitty muttered, free arm wrapped around himself in an effort to preserve his quickly departing body heat. “I hate you and your stupid Candian accent and your stupid Canadian driver and your stupid Canadian traditions.”

“Hey,” Jack said, pulling Bitty towards the lapping waves of Lake Ontario. “Don’t be so hard on Martin, eh?”

Bitty found he was too cold to even roll his eyes. He tiptoed behind Jack until they were just yards from the water. Jack grinned wildly at him, squeezing his hand and counting down.

“Three, two, one-“

And then they were running, beach disappearing beneath their feet, toes splashing into low tide and it felt like needles were poking into him, starting at the soles of his feet and moving up his ankles and then his calves as Jack pulled him further in. Jack was laughing, a free, easy sort of laugh that Bitty didn’t hear enough. He glanced up at him. His cheekbones were sharp in the moonlight, framing a flush born of chill and exertion. His eyes were bright in the darkness and Bitty thought this freezing hell might be worth it if it brought them even a few moments like this. Then he realized he couldn’t feel his feet. They went a few more steps, until there were waves lapping at Bitty’s waist, and then Jack promptly spun them around, running full speed out of the water, Bitty chattering behind him.

They splashed back onto dry land, damp and shivering, and Bitty whacked Jack pathetically on the shoulder a few times, too cold to do much else. They hobbled through the snow back to the picnic bench, where Bitty was immediately bundled into a towel. Jack handed him his shoes to carry, scooped up the rest of their clothes, and they beat a breakneck pace back to the car.

Martin emerged from the driver’s seat at their approach and opened the back door, through which Bitty and Jack launched themselves upon arrival. Martin calmly closed the door behind them.

Bitty was still shivering, even in the warmth of the car, suddenly aware of the fact that he was sitting mostly naked next to his mostly naked boyfriend, being driven around by a man that had probably once seen Jack poop in the Stanley Cup. He started laughing. Great, bellowing guffaws, and Jack followed suit. They lay in a wet heap on the backseat, noses knocking together as Jack snuck a chaste, chilly kiss. Bitty felt a hot tongue lapping at his lips and gave Jack a little shove, jerking his head at the open partition.

Jack sighed, leaning his head on Bitty’s shoulder instead. “Happy New Year, Bits,” he said softly.

Bitty let his head fall against Jack’s, huffing out a soft laugh into his hair. “Happy New Year, sweetheart.”

*

Later, in the haven of his Toronto hotel room, Jack watched Bitty’s eyes begin to droop. “You tired?” Jack asked, trailing a hand gently across Bitty’s shoulder. The hotel clock on the bedside table read 2:12 AM.

Bitty shook his head, aware of the limited amount of time they had before parting ways, but he was betrayed by a yawn.

Jack chuckled, wrapping an arm around Bitty’s middle and tugging so they were laying down chest to chest, foreheads knocking together. Bitty yawned again and tossed a leg over Jack’s.

“Maybe just a quick catnap,” Bitty mumbled, lips brushing Jack’s shoulder, and Jack craned down to chase them for a quick kiss, then two.

“Whatever you say, Bits,” he whispered.

“That’s right,” Bitty said, eyes drifting shut, warm all over with Jack pressed against him. And there, like that, Jack’s arm solid across his waist, heart slow and steady in his chest, breath puffing out onto hot skin, the world of hockey and secrets seemed far away. Bitty let himself drift into that peaceful distance. He would stay in Jack’s arms for as long as he could and they would tackle the rest later. There was so much time.

But it still felt too soon when three hours later Bitty was waving a sleepy farewell to Jack through the window of the black sedan, Martin pulling away from the hotel a touch slower than he would otherwise. Bitty could just barely make out Jack’s silhouette through the parted hotel curtains, and then the pre-dawn streets of Toronto took his place. Less than two weeks until they were both back in New England. Hardly any time at all.

*

Scot had the front door open before Bitty even made it up the walk. Bitty looked back and waved at Martin, who lifted a hand in friendly response and eased the car back down Clinton and out of sight.

“Oh. My. God,” Scot said as Bitty tromped up the front steps. “Do you know what time it is, young man?”

Bitty couldn’t help the grin that creeped its way onto his face. “Just shy of six o’clock I’d say.”

Scot gasped dramatically and tugged Bitty inside, kicking the front door shut behind him. “Bitty’s back!” he shouted into the house.

“Morning, Bitty,” came Sam’s faint reply from the kitchen.

Eric appeared from around the corner to lean against the banister, mug of coffee steaming in one hand. “Morning,” he said, smile on his face. “You boys have fun?”

“We did,” Bitty said, smiling in return. “Thanks for your help, by the way.”

“Anytime,” Eric said sincerely, and then, with a grin, “Jack still fit to play tonight?”

“Aaaaaand that’s our cue!” Scot shrieked, pushing a furiously blushing Bitty up the stairs.

“Hey!” Eric shouted after them. “What if I wanted deetz?”

“You have a designated sex-talk partner in the kitchen, old man!” Scot said over his shoulder.

Eric gasped. “Who said anything about sex?” He turned towards the kitchen. “Sam! I think Scot needs another talk.” He snapped his fingers as if struck with an idea. “Do the one about the hierarchy of affectionate gestures!”

Scot leaned over the balcony railing. “Yeah Sam, where does ‘kiss my ass’ rank?”

“Excuse you!” Eric yelled, but Scot was already pushing Bitty through the door to his attic bedroom. Bitty could just make out, “And I’m not that old!” before Scot slammed the door.

Bitty was laughing as he ascended the stairs to flop down on Scot’s bed. “Are they always like this?”

Scot snorted. “Pretty much.” He flopped down next to Bitty. “They’re worse when I have people over. Sorry.”

“Oh, no!” Bitty said, flapping a hand. “They’re wonderful, really.” He shut his eyes. “My house isn’t like this at all.”

“Like what?” Scot asked jokingly. “Gay?”

“No!” Bitty laughed. “Well, yes, but, here it’s…” He wasn’t sure the word he was looking for. He settled on, “Comfortable.” He rolled onto his side to look at Scot. “They make it look so easy.”

Scot rolled over so they were both face to face, lying on the bed the wrong way, legs draped over the edge. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It hasn’t always been this easy.”

Bitty didn’t know the right response to that, but he was saved from finding one as Scot continued.

“Eric’s a fighter, you know? And sometimes that’s good.” He smiled. “He’s always fought for me.”

Bitty smiled back across the bedspread.

“But he didn’t always fight for Sam.”

Bitty’s smile quirked down. “Whaddya mean?”

Scot sighed. “I asked Eric once, how he faked it as a kid.” At Bitty’s questioning look Scot waved a hand, “You know, being not-gay.”

Bitty snorted, and Scot stuck his tongue out at him.

“Anyway, he just sort of shrugged and told me he didn’t have to do anything – he played hockey.”

Bitty’s face fell, and his hand came up of its own volition to clutch at his chest. This was a story Bitty knew. This was the story Bitty lived from age twelve until coming out to Shitty on a snowy park bench freshman year.

“I think,” Scot went on, unaware of the way Bitty’s heart was breaking into pieces next to him, “that even after he retired he was still sort of hiding behind that hockey mentality. Being gay was still something to be ashamed of, and Sam got the brunt of that early on.” Scot’s mouth did a strange sort of half-smile, half-frown. “Sam was the only thing that might give him away.”

And suddenly Bitty was panicking. He was thinking of covert hotel room maneuvers and private drivers and human buffers at bars and Jack was just getting started. Jack had so many years left to play – so many years left to fake it. And they had told Shitty and the Haus, and Scot knew, but Eric McNally was forty-nine and still not out to the NHL. They had so much time, Bitty realized. So much time to wait. And Bitty was Sam – the one who’d give the game away.

Scot scrubbed hand down his face. “But enough of that!” He said, and reached over to shove Bitty. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me Jack Zimmermann was your boyfriend!”

Bitty laughed, a little nervously. “We agreed to keep it pretty quiet.” He pushed down the niggling whispers in his brain that it might never be anything but quiet. “Scot, you can’t tell anybody,” he said forcefully.

“What?” Scot said, taken aback. “No, I mean, of course I won’t,” he added at Bitty’s stricken face. “Are you alright?”

Bitty shut his eyes and rolled away from Scot. “Since I got here I’d been thinking about our future – mine and Jack’s,” he clarified. “I hadn’t really gotten around to imagining the possibility of a house, or a family, or – that this was something we could have.”

Scot smiled.

“And we’re both already so tired of keeping it a secret, and Eric and Sam talk about how great things were after coming out and I was starting to hope-“ Bitty broke off, willing himself not to cry. “I didn’t even think about the time it might take us to get there.”

Scot made an odd sort of whining noise and scooted closer to wrap an arm around Bitty. “Jack is not Eric,” he said softly. “And you are definitely not Sam. And it’s 2016, and the world is changing.”

Bitty scoffed, and Scot laughed.

“Slowly, yeah, but it is,” Scot affirmed. “You and Jack will figure it out, in your own way.” He squeezed Bitty a little tighter. “My parents should definitely not be your coming out template.”

A begrudging laugh bubbled out of Bitty. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Scot agreed. They lay there in comfortable silence for another beat before Scot whispered, “So for real, what is it like to bang a professional hockey player? Is he like, sculpted out of marble?”

Bitty groaned and shoved Scot away.

“No, really, help a guy out here,” Scot insisted, dodging a kick from Bitty. “Have I been in the wrong dating pool all this time?”

Bitty finally landed a kick to Scot’s knee and he yelped, scrambling off the bed. “Seems to me you’ve got a pretty reliable source down in your kitchen, Mr. Latour.”

A horrified look took over Scot’s face. “Oh my god!” he wailed. “Why would you say that?”

Bitty cackled and threw himself on top of Scot, crushing him into the carpet. Scot grunted beneath him, kicking his legs wildly to throw Bitty off, managing to get one tangled in Bitty’s and he pitched them sideways, sending Bitty careening into the baseboard. Scot winced as Bitty’s shoulder slammed into the wall, and he crawled over to where Bitty was laid out on the carpet.

“Ow,” Bitty muttered, eyes closed.

“Sorry,” Scot said, collapsing next to Bitty.

They stared at the ceiling, fan almost hypnotic in its rotations, and Bitty was suddenly immensely grateful for this person in his life. He tried to imagine this semester without Scot, without early morning skates or coffee dates in Founder’s, or anything else that Scot had done to fill up the gaping hole left by Jack and Shitty’s departure. And now, being in Toronto and meeting Eric and Sam, and seeing Jack, and Scot’s reassurance, and without really meaning to Bitty was crying, fat tears rolling down his cheeks to soak into the carpeting.

Scot looked over as he began to sniffle, and was mortified at the tear tracks staining Bitty’s cheeks.

“Oh god, I’m sorry!” Scot said, sitting up. “I’m the worst, always running my mouth off, just slamming people into walls. I’m so sorry Bitty, please-“

Bitty flapped a hand at him to stop the ramble. “No, no, it’s nothing you- I’m just so happy to be here.” He smiled up at Scot.

Scot just boggled at him for a moment, and Bitty rolled his eyes and tugged Scot back down next to him.

“You’re a peach, Scot,” Bitty said, and Scot laughed.

“Thanks, Bitty.” He knocked his head against Bitty’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, too.” After another moment he added, “I’m still sorry I made you cry.”

“Oh for heavens-“ Bitty said, rolling his eyes. “What is it with you Canadians and your apologies?” He sat up, hastily wiping tears from his cheeks, and shook his head to clear it. He held out a hand to Scot. “Come on,” he said, tugging him up. “Breakfast. All these emotions have got me hungry.”

Scot smirked. “You sure you didn’t over-exert yourself last night? I hear those hockey boys are hard to keep up with.”

“Well,” Bitty said, low and velvet, “I can only speak from my singular experience, but why don’t we go downstairs and get a second opinion?” He bounced down the stairs, Scot crying out in horror behind him.

“You are not a peach!” Scot yelled, following him. “You’re not sweet at all! You’re just- You’re just a pit!” He was on the main staircase now, Bitty laughing and speeding up ahead of him. “You’re just hard, and bitter, and-“

“Hah!” Eric appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “See, Sam, they were talking about sex!” he said, and Scot yelped and tripped down the last few steps.

Bitty cackled his way into the kitchen. Sam handed him a cup of coffee, and they shared a smirk.

Eric picked Scot up off the ground, slapping him on the back, and, still grinning, guided him towards the kitchen. “What’s for breakfast?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter every Wednesday. Today's chapter brought to you by this scene from Mermaids, a film which Scot no doubt forced upon Eric and Sam just as my mother forced it upon me:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EEwA1ldUb60
> 
> Thanks to all you lovely button clickers who left me kudos and comments - you are rays of sunshine, all. 
> 
> Want to sigh with me about Eric McNally? Find me on tumblr as achoo-gesundheit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy national day of overeating to all you Americans out there. Sorry for getting this up so late - it's been a bit of a week. 
> 
> There are mentions of underage drinking in this chapter. I do not condone underage drinking, or excessive drinking of any kind. Be safe, friends.

May crept up on Samwell in the way Spring always seemed to, and suddenly everything was running on full speed. It was playoffs, and then finals, and then the semester was ending before Bitty had a chance to catch his breath. As graduation loomed sooner and sooner on the calendar, Bitty was staying busy, purposefully keeping his mind off the senior’s imminent departure. Scot had been MIA the last few weeks, his own end of the semester projects apparently as all-consuming as Bitty’s. Jack and Bitty had still been

Skyping every night, but it had been almost a month since Bitty had made it to Providence. If there was any bright side to the approach of graduation, it’s that it was bringing Jack back to Samwell.

But before that happened, Bitty would turn twenty-one. His birthday fell on the first Thursday of finals, and the Haus was in disarray. Pieces of Lardo’s senior portfolio were strewn in every room, and Ransom was living on a questionable diet of stress eating and caffeine. The recycling bin Bitty had acquired for the kitchen was overflowing with empty cans of Red Bull, and Holster had taken to apathetically tossing new cans at it and watching them clatter to the floor with a blank, soulless stare.

Bitty had his first and only final that morning - French. It went as well as could have been expected of someone whose only real academic pursuit of the language had been studying his French-Canadian boyfriend’s ass for two semesters. But at least it was over. He still had a paper to finish, but it wasn’t due until the last day of exams and he certainly wasn’t about to work any more than he had to on his own birthday. In fact, he was entirely ready to spend the rest of his day baking himself birthday pies. But then Scot called in a tizzy about some paper or another, and so Bitty trekked down to Founder’s with what was left of last night’s cherry and three bottles of water.

Scot was sitting at a study carrel, surrounded by empty coffee cups and looking like he hadn't slept in days.

“Oh, good heavens,” Bitty muttered, and forced a bottle of water into Scot’s shaking hands.

 “I still have four pages to write!” Scot wailed, but took a begrudging sip. The other sleep deprived undergrads in the library all sent glares their way, and Bitty glared right back at them.

“Alright, honey, now just calm down, we’ll figure this out.” Bitty dragged one of the heavy library chairs over to Scot’s desk and opened his laptop. “When’s this paper due?”

Scot looked at frantically at his watch and wailed again. “In four hours!”

“Well,” Bitty said, resigning himself to apparently spending his twenty-first birthday in the library, “that’s only one page an hour. Totally doable.”

But after what felt like days (and was more likely an hour and a half) very little actual progress had been made. They had co-opted another desk (it had belonged to a wide-eyed freshman, who Bitty plied with pie and sent home to bed) to spread out the stacks of books Scot had seemingly collected at random. Bitty surveyed the mayhem around them, then the word document open on his computer, and blinked.

“Scot, honey, I’m still not sure I even understand what this paper’s about.”

Scot groaned in response, burying his head in his arms. “I’m doomed!”

Bitty was inclined to agree. “What time is it?” he asked instead, rubbing at his eyes.

With another agonized groan, Scot heaved his head up so he could check his watch. “Oh God,” he whispered. “It’s already four o'clock."

Bitty sighed. “Well we’re certainly not getting anything done here,” he said, gesturing to the empty word document. “Wanna head back to your apartment? I could fix you some lunch.” His brow furrowed. “Dinner?”

“I don't wanna go home,” Scot pouted. “Siobhan is having some kind of mental breakdown about the fact that she's graduating and her youth is over, or whatever. It’s pretty ugly.” He blinked tired, hopeful eyes at bitty. “Can we go back to the Haus?”

“Well, I can't promise it'll be a prettier sight,” Bitty cautioned, thinking about the overflowing recycling bin and his three graduating seniors, probably huddled together in some kind of supernatural attempt to summon a demon that would extend the academic term.

“Please, Bitty,” Scot said pathetically. “Don't make me go home.”

“Oh for- “ Bitty rolled his eyes. “Fine. Get your stuff.”

“Thank you!” Scot said earnestly, and began shoving books into his bag at breakneck pace.

Bitty took a long, steady breath, and picked up a stack. Some birthday this was shaping up to be.

Scot chattered the entire way back to the Haus, and Bitty wished he had thought to try relocation earlier. How anyone could spend that long in the library basement and not go completely crazy was beyond him. Fresh air, he reminded himself, was essential. Bitty was lugging a bag full of Scot’s books, brain going over new ways to motivate the zombie study club that had decided to make his kitchen home base, and trying to remind himself that it was only two weeks until graduation. Two weeks until Jack. _Two weeks_ , he thought to himself. _Two weeks._ He could do this.

All this to say he did not notice the crowd that had gathered in his home until it was too late.

“SURPRISE!”

Bitty dropped the books with a thud.

There were at least twenty people crammed into the kitchen. Shitty was at the front, beaming, and he swooped down to lift Bitty into a hug.

“Happy birthday, you gorgeous fucking man!” Shitty yelled.

“What?” Bitty said, arms pinned to his sides by the embrace. “What’s happening?”

“It’s your fucking birthday, brah!” Shitty said, finally setting him back down. “You think we’d let you get away without celebrating?” He turned to give Scot a fist bump. “Fine work, Skoosh. You’ll be an actor yet.”

Bitty turned wild eyes on Scot. “You don’t have a paper due?” He asked, voice a little too high.

Scot shrugged and shook his head. “I was just supposed to keep you out of dodge for the afternoon.”

“I hate you,” Bitty told him.

Scot laughed, accepting a beer from Shitty and leaning down to plant a messy kiss on Bitty’s cheek. “Happy birthday!”

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t possibly be real. But there, somewhere near his stomach, was that feeling of overwhelming joy, bubbling up into his chest and filling him. “But- Y’all…” Bitty looked around at the assorted crowd. They were mostly hockey players, but Ford was there, and Farmer, and Scot’s roommate Siobhan, and there, near the back, with a bow stuck to his head and grinning like a loon, was Jack.

“Oh my gosh,” Bitty breathed.

“Surprise,” Jack said.

“Oh my gosh,” Bitty said.

“Now kiss,” Shitty hissed from behind him, shoving him towards Jack.

Bitty stumbled forwards, and Jack laughed and caught him, wrapping him up in a hug and planting a kiss on his forehead. “Happy birthday, Bits,” he said.

“Oh my gosh,” Bitty repeated dumbly, face pressed into Jack’s shoulder. He smelled like laundry detergent and deodorant and Bitty could not believe he was here. “Oh my gosh.”

“I have a present for you,” Jack said into his hair, and Bitty boggled at him.

“Just you being here is my present!”

Lardo groaned and yelled at Holster to get the sin bin.

“Brah, Jack is my gift,” Shitty said. “No two-fers.”

“Shitty brought me,” Jack said, smiling. “I brought you something else,” he added, and stepped slightly to the side to reveal the counter behind him.

Bitty gasped. There, perched on the dirty Formica countertops, was a brand new KitchenAid mixer, shiny in Samwell red, a bow matching Jack’s stuck on top.

“Oh my gosh.”

It was beautiful, top of the line, and all his. The joy in his chest kept bubbling up and up and tears were leaking out of the corners of his eyes.

“Y’all are too much,” Bitty exhaled, looking at Jack.

Jack reached up with a thumb to wipe at Bitty’s cheek, and Bitty was sure the kitchen had disappeared around them.

Until Lardo forcibly wedged the sin bin between them, rattling the jar suggestively. “Save room for Jesus, kids.”

“And room for booze!” Shitty crowed, the horde cheering in response. “If everyone over the age of twenty-one, or in possession of an ID that says they are, could please make their way outside, towards a vehicle!”

Ransom and Holster began herding people towards the door.

Shitty sauntered over to Jack and Bitty, perching a chauffer’s cap on Jack’s head at a rakish angle. The letters D.D. had been bedazzled on the front of it. Shitty took a step back to admire his handiwork. “Perfect!” he declared after a moment, then bowed low and swept out a hand. “Your chariot awaits, Master Bittle.”

Bitty giggled, taking a tentative step away from Jack, who adjusted his hat a little more securely on his head.

“And you-“ Shitty snapped his fingers at Jack and pointed to where Lardo was still jingling the sin bin. “Pay up and get your butt in a driver’s seat. We’ve got merriness to pursue.”

“I think you mean drunkenness,” Jack chirped.

“They are but one and the same,” Shitty replied gravely, and Jack shook his head, chuckling.

“Here.” Jack pulled out his wallet and dropped two fifty-dollar bills into Lardo’s jar. “For the night, eh?” When Lardo raised an eyebrow at him, he blushed, and shot an affectionate glance at Bitty. “Because it’s only going to get worse.”

Shitty let out a cry of triumph, Lardo smirked and rolled her eyes, and Bitty, heart full to bursting, reached down to tangle his fingers with Jack’s.

Some birthday this was shaping up to be.

*

A week after what had turned out to be one of the best birthdays he’d ever had, and with a week to go until graduation, Bitty was getting dressed for the end of year hockey banquet. His bowtie was stuck stubbornly askew, and as he tweaked it this way and that it only seemed to get more and more crooked. He was frowning sullenly at the mirror when Chowder stuck his head in.

“Wow! You look great!”

“Why thank you, Chowder, you clean up nice yourself.” Bitty said, giving up on the tie entirely.

“You about ready to go?”

“Yes sir,” Bitty said, ignoring his reflection as he reached over to grab his keys. “Time for a last hurrah with our beloved captains.”

Chowder ambled down the stairs of the Haus behind him. “I know, right?” He said. “I wonder who got the C for next season.”

Bitty waved at Lardo, Ransom, and Holster, who were miraculously dressed and waiting near the door. “Hard to say.” They all shuffled out of the Haus, porch boards groaning underneath squeaking dress shoes. “My money’s on Ollie,” Bitty added as they made their way towards the banquet hall on the North Quad. “He’s really done well this season, and I think the tadpoles have really taken a shine to him.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Chowder said, as they pushed their way inside the hall. “I voted for you, though.”

Bitty smiled. “You are too sweet, Chris Chow.”

Chowder shrugged. “Pretty sure most of the frogs did, too. And some of the tadpoles, I think.”

Bitty stopped mid-step. In the hullabaloo of an ending semester, Bitty had not even considered a scenario in which he was voted into the captaincy. He was suddenly considering it. Something began to churn in his stomach, and he brought a nervous hand up to his mouth. Holster appeared behind him and ushered him towards the table, sitting him down in a chair next to Lardo, who winked.

The meal seemed to pass in slow motion. Bitty could only nibble at his food, skipping dessert entirely, much to the horror of Ransom and Holster. Lardo was smirking.

When the last of the plates were cleared, Coach Murray cleared his throat. He stood at the head of the table, sheet of paper in hand, and talked about the season, their successes, his hopes for next year, and how both he and Coach Hall were immensely proud of what they’d accomplished. His speech ran through Bitty’s head like water, none of the words settling into anything regarding comprehension. Then there was a pause, and Bitty realized now was the moment. He wasn’t ready.

“I am proud to announce that your captain for the 2016-2017 season is… Eric Bittle.”

There was cheering and hollering and Ransom and Holster were banging their forks on the table and Bitty thought he might throw up.

“You have to go up there and accept it, Bits,” Lardo whispered, tugging on his coat sleeve.

Bitty nodded, swallowing heavily, and slowly made his way up to the front. He accepted the plaque from the coaches, hands shaking, and turned to face the team- his team. He fought down the urge to cry.

“Boys,” he started, taking in the table of beaming faces, “I- I don’t even know what to say.”

This was met with laughter, more cheering, and Ransom and Holster shouting words of encouragement over the din.

“I couldn’t have ever in my wildest dreams imagined I’d be standing here, holding this,” he said, lifting the plaque. “That you boys would think me fit to fill these shoes.” He looked over at Holster, who was wiping away a tear, and Ransom, patting him on the back, his own lip trembling. “But,” Bitty said, thinking of Jack, “I will do everything I can to be the best captain I can be.” He sniffed. “And I’m really touched.” He blinked a couple times, a few tears escaping to roll down his cheeks, and he laughed. “Y’all are all getting pie tomorrow!”

There was another round of cheering at that, and then the coaches were clapping, followed by the rest of the team, and Bitty retreated numbly to his seat, accepting hugs from nearly everyone on his way.

Lardo was smiling when he sat back down, and leaned in to whisper, “Jack’s gonna be so proud of you.”

Bitty cried, then, happy tears running down his face, and Lardo reached over to squeeze his hand under the table.

“Congratulations, Cap.”

*

Bitty hadn’t even untied his bowtie before he was calling Jack. The phone rang and rang and Bitty was sure it was going to voicemail when he heard, “Allo?”

“Jack!” Bitty breathed, and then didn’t pause again for air. “Oh my goodness, you’re never going to believe- Jack, they voted me captain! I’m going to be the captain of the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team! I’m just a wreck about it, really. I may have cried. But I’m pretty sure Holster cried, too. And Lardo looked like she knew? She’s sneaky that one. I bet the coaches told her. But, oh heavens, I’m captain!” He giggled. “I can’t believe it. Can you believe it?”

There was a beat of silence, and then laughter. “If what Jack has told me about you is true, then yes, I can absolutely believe it,” said a voice that was definitely not Jack’s.

Bitty let his eyes drop closed, trying to ignore the way all the blood in his body was now rushing to his cheeks. “Well that’s very kind of you to say, Mr. Zimmermann.”

This was met with a bark of laughter. “Bitty, we talked about this.”

A hysterical sort of giggle escaped Bitty’s mouth. “Right. Bob,” Bitty said, the name feeling awkward and wrong on his tongue. “Is Jack around, by any chance?”

“He’s in the shower, but I’ll be sure to have him call you when he’s clean!”

“Thanks very much, Mr. Zim- Bob. Bob.”

Bob laughed again. “There ya go. And congratulations! If you ever need any captainly advice, feel free to call, eh? I’m a fountain of wisdom.”

The idea of calling Bad Bob Zimmermann for advice on captaining his college hockey team was too ridiculous a notion for Bitty to hold in, and he managed to squeak out a “Thanks!” and end the call before collapsing into giggles.

Jack called twenty minutes later, and the whole scenario was repeated, Bob’s voice carrying through the speaker as he yelled over Jack’s offer of advice, “I taught him everything he knows, Bitty! And I’m retired! Totally at your disposal!”

Bitty heard the sounds of a scuffle, followed by some muffled French, and then it was just Jack again.

“He’s bored,” Jack provided by way of explanation.

“It happens to the best of us,” Bitty responded, unable to knock the grin off his face.

“Hey,” Jack said, serious. “I am so proud of you, Bits. You’re gonna do amazing.”

Any weight left clenched in Bitty’s stomach was gone at that, becoming the familiar flutter of warmth in his chest that he so often felt when talking to Jack. “Thanks, sweetheart. Now, tell me how your day went.”

*

Summer, it seemed to Bitty, had gotten longer. It was his sixth week working at camp and Georgia was just as sweltering and just as orthodox as he remembered, in both decorum and dogma. Talk of relationships, whether they be between counselors or not, was strictly forbidden in front of campers, and severely frowned upon even amongst staff. Bitty was more than happy to abide by that rule. His fellow counselors, on the other hand, had been having trouble.

“Mail’s in!” Brooke shouted, careening into the cafeteria and throwing envelopes at breakfasting staff members as she passed them. “What’s this? Another letter for dear little Dicky?” She smirked at Bitty. “Got an admirer, Eric?”

“And if I did?” Bitty replied, all innocence. He and Brooke had been at camp together since they were CIT’s, and Bitty suspected she had figured him out ages ago. “Is it so hard to believe?”

Brooke laughed. “Not at all. I’m frankly surprised it didn’t happen sooner.” She winked. “You’re a catch, Bittle.”

Bitty smiled, reaching out for his mail. “And you’re a dear.”

Brooke sighed and shook her head. “I gotta say though, I’m bummed. I really thought there might have been a chance for us.”

Bitty reigned in a laugh, and shook his head sadly in return.

“Alas,” she cried, “but it was not to be. You have instead,” she craned her neck to read the return address on the envelope, “J. Zimmermann, of Providence, Rhode Island. How quaint.” She threw the last few pieces of mail across the table, and then flopped down dramatically on Bitty’s lap. She looped her arms around his neck and yanked his head down to whisper in his ear, “Does he have a nice ass, at least?”

Bitty couldn’t help the way his cheeks turned red, eyes darting around the cafeteria. They had attracted a few stares from other staff members, and Bitty was praying that none of them were avid hockey fans. He tucked his mail into his bag, and stood up, Brooke hopping to her feet before she was pitched to the ground.

“Will you manage to survive the disappointment?” Bitty asked, leading the way out the door and back towards the camper cabins, sun just beginning to crest over the tree line.

Brooke hummed thoughtfully, looping an arm through Bitty’s as they walked. “That depends – can you give me deetz?”

Bitty sighed, and shook his head. “I really can’t, actually."

“Bummer,” Brooke said, and Bitty nodded in agreement. “Well, I want you to know that I’m happy for you, because you seem happier.” She snorted. “Definitely happier than high school.”

He shuddered. “I am so much happier than high school,” Bitty agreed, and Brooke laughed.

The trail split in front of them and Brooke released his arm. “Well, Mr. Bittle, your happy little secret is safe with me.” She socked him in the shoulder affectionately. “I’m proud of you.”

Bitty beamed, pulling her in for a hug, then shoving her away when she said into his ear, “Little Dicky finally getting some dick.”

There was that pesky blush again, and he flapped a hand angrily at her as she trotted backwards towards the girl’s cabins, cackling. “You’re a menace!” he yelled.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” Brooke shouted back.

Bitty huffed out a chuckle, and took the opposite fork of the trail that led up to the boy’s cabins. As pestering as she often proved to be, Bitty was grateful for Brooke and her easy acceptance. When she told him at the beginning of summer that she’d volunteered for mail duty, Bitty had assumed it was because of her undying need to be nosy. As it turned out, it had been something of a blessing, his letters to and from Jack the source of an ongoing, friendly jest rather than a possible inquisition.

Camp friends were miraculous that way. They could go most of the year without more than a Happy Birthday text between them and yet when camp started it was like they’d been together the whole time. Brooke reminded him a little bit of Shitty in that way, how friendships can start fast and end up lasting, and he couldn’t help but miss his world at Samwell. Being in Georgia increasingly felt like he was putting real life on hiatus. Particularly at a place like camp, where he only had access to a phone once a week, and hadn’t seen a computer screen since May, it was hard not to feel he was living in a sort of parallel universe.

He missed Jack. Writing letters was great – there was, after all, something magical about a tangible thing to open and read – but Bitty missed hearing the sound of Jack’s voice every night, missed seeing his face, missed the normality of having a boyfriend, something that seemed to disappear upon crossing the Mason-Dixon line. Two more weeks of camp, and then Jack came to Madison. Bitty could make it two more weeks.

He tromped up the stairs of Coyote Cabin #6, the clock on the wall reading seven-thirty AM, and whistled. All of the boys awoke with a start, one falling out of bed entirely. Bitty spared a moment to mentally thank Eric for teaching him that trick, and thank God that Jeremy had not been given a top bunk.

*

The last day of camp was always bittersweet. It meant saying goodbye to old friends, and many new ones, and Bitty couldn’t be blamed for the teary farewells he gave to most of his campers. Later that evening, the staff packed up their bags and cleaned their cabins and left their badges at the main house, exchanging hugs and phone numbers and their plans for the year.

Bitty was standing with Brooke, who was leaning against his car, sad smile on her face, overstuffed duffel bags stacked next to her.

“You really don’t have to wait, my ride should be here any minute,” she said.

Bitty waved her off. “I’ve got nowhere to be! I’m not leaving you out here in these woods on your own, missy.”

“There are like twelve other staff members still here.”

“Quit trying to get rid of me.”

“Alright, alright,” Brooke laughed. She glanced at her watch and sighed, climbing up onto the hood and laying back against the windshield. “Whaddya say, Bittle – one last snuggle, for old time’s sake?”

Bitty laughed and rolled his eyes, but he heaved himself onto the hood next to her. They stared up at the stars, bright and unfiltered and looking so different from the stars in Samwell, dulled as they always were by the lights of Boston’s sprawling metropolis.

“Don’t ever settle for anything less than you deserve, Eric,” Brooke said, quiet and sudden, and Bitty turned to look at her with wide eyes. “I mean it. This place,” she gestured around, and Bitty didn’t know if she meant camp, or Madison, or Georgia, but she pressed on, “it’s stifling. I wasn’t kidding the other day when I said you seemed happier, and it’s definitely not all to do with, presumably, the stunningly handsome J. Zimmermann. You got out. And you got to be you, you know? For the first time you got to be you.”

He had been crying all day and the tears were back now, pricking at the corners of his eyes and Brooke turned to look at him, tears to match.

“But you keep coming back here. You put away that you and act like it’s okay and it’s not.” She reached a hand up to scrub at her eyes and turned back up to the stars. “Get the fuck out of here, Eric.”

Before he could form any kind of response, a car came crunching up the gravel drive, headlights temporarily blinding them, stars winking out under the onslaught. Brooke sat up. A girl about their age climbed out of the driver’s seat and walked over, and Brooke slid down off the hood to meet her. Bitty watched as the girl looped her arms around Brooke’s neck and kissed her, saw Brooke’s hands reach out to cradle her hips, and saw the stars again, twinkling out from still wet eyes. They parted slowly, the girl coming over to grab Brooke’s bags, and Brooke leaning up to kiss Bitty on the cheek.

“Got get ‘em, tiger,” she said against his skin, and then she was gone. Bitty watched their brake lights disappear around the bend and the stars winked back on. He laid there and thought of Jack, of stolen kisses and twinkling eyes, and whether you could see them in the sky or not, Bitty realized, the stars at Samwell were the same. So, with one last look at camp constellations, foreign, and familiar, and oh so beautiful, Bitty rolled off the hood, started his car, and made for Madison.

Ten miles outside of camp, cell service still spotty, Bitty stopped at a gas station and got change for the payphone, dialing with the speed of repeated practice. Jack’s voice was groggy when he answered.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s me,” Bitty said.

“Bitty? Where are you?" 

“Still outside of cell range. I’m on a pay phone.”

“What? Are you alright?”

Bitty’s heart leapt into his throat, but he forced the words out. “I’m fine.” He took a breath. “When you come to Madison,” he said, “I’m coming out.”

* 

Four days later, Bitty was waiting in the arrivals lounge of the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, a comically large cup of coffee clutched in his hand. He couldn’t seem to sit still, nervous energy forcing him in and out of several armchairs before he resorted to a sort of stationary bounce near a potted ficus. The airport had been chilled down to shivering temperatures to combat the summer heat, and Bitty took another sip of coffee, warmth radiating into his hands through the cup. People began trickling out of the arrivals tunnel, a sign that another flight had landed, and Bitty watched as people were reunited. He always enjoyed these _Love Actually_ moments at airports, when loved ones saw each other again after being away. Next to him, a man who had spent most of the last twenty minutes alternating between checking his phone and staring at the arrivals board had clearly spotted who he was waiting for. A woman leaving the tunnel saw him too, and she dropped her bags and ran to meet him. Bitty watched them kiss and felt his heart wrench slightly in his chest. An older woman on the other side of the ficus sighed.

“Young love,” she said, smiling at Bitty.

Bitty turned, leaning around the tree to smile politely back at her. Then he glanced down at his phone, Jack’s flight lit up in green for having landed, and reread the text from a few minutes ago that just said, _On the ground. See you soon._

“Who ya waiting for, sugar?” The woman asked.

Bitty looked up. “Oh! Um-“ 

“Is it someone special?”

“Yes,” Bitty said, unable to control his grin. “Yes ma’am, it is.”

“How wonderful,” she said, beaming back at him.

“And you? Waiting for anyone in particular?” Bitty asked.

“My granddaughter,” she said, excited. “She just had a baby, you know, and, well, I for one can’t imagine flying with an infant, but her momma’s not been round much as she’d like and she’s just been dying for some rest and I told her, you just come on down to visit, honey, and I’ll take care a that baby.”

Bitty nodded, about to turn back to watch the tunnel, but the woman went on.

“I just love babies. Truly God’s little angels. They don’t want nothing in this world but a little love, and isn’t that just the right way to be?”

“Yes ma’am, it sure is,” Bitty agreed quickly. “Now you be sure to give that baby a squeeze from me, and have a real nice visit with your granddaughter,” he said with what he hoped was an air of finality, and made to turn away.

“You got any babies, son?” she asked.

Bitty nearly choked on his sip of coffee.

“None that I know about,” a heartbreakingly familiar voice said, and Bitty’s sputtering quickly turned to elation.

“Jack!” Bitty spun around and there he was, hair tousled and eyes sleepy, a slow, darling smile on his lips.

“Hi,” Jack said, stepping forward, and Bitty stepped to meet him, arms coming up to loop around his waist, face pressed to his chest. “Missed you,” Jack said into his hair, and Bitty could have cried.

Instead, he leaned back, rose up to his tiptoes, and pressed a kiss to Jack’s quirking mouth. One of Jack’s hands brushed soft against Bitty’s neck, and then they were stepping apart. Bitty reached down to tangle his fingers with Jack’s, though, and the sudden warmth seeping into his palm was better than any cup of coffee.

The old woman was still smiling when Bitty glanced back over. As they walked by her, Bitty waved awkwardly with the hand still holding his coffee.

Her eyes swept Jack up and down, and then she gave Bitty an exaggerated wink and a thumbs-up in return.

Jack’s laugh echoed all the way down the corridor and out of the airport.

It wasn’t until they were halfway to Madison that the euphoria drained, leaving Bitty anxious and fidgeting in the driver’s seat. Bitty had spent the last half hour regaling Jack with stories about camp, Jack chiming in here and there with a witty remark or a question. But tales of renegade campers had transitioned to tales of his shenanigans with Brooke, until finally Bitty was telling Jack about that last night, less than a week ago but feeling so much longer.

“I think it’s great that you want to tell your parents, Bits,” Jack said quietly. “But I also don’t want you to feel pressured to do something you’re not ready to do.”

“She wasn’t trying to pressure me,” Bitty said. “She just wanted me to be happy.”

“I do, too,” Jack agreed. “More than anything.”

Bitty chewed on his lip, fingers tapping absently on the steering wheel. “I’m worried this won’t make me happy.”

“Then maybe we-“

“No, hush for a sec,” Bitty said. “What I mean is… my parents and I are in a really good place, you know? I don’t want that to change." 

Jack was silent for a minute. “Speaking from experience,” he said carefully, “lying to your parents for the sake of peace is not the same as being in a good place.”

“Yeah,” Bitty sighed, and stared out the window. I-20 stretched out in front of them in seemingly endless asphalt. They could just keep driving, he thought. Hop on I-95 somewhere in South Carolina and go all the way to Providence, or Boston. It was more tempting than he cared to admit.

“Whatever you decide to do,” Jack said, reaching out to rest a hand on Bitty’s knee, “I’ll be here.”

And that, that simple comfort, the kind that made him want to sing and cry and kiss Jack and never do anything else, was what made him decide.

“Thank you, sweetheart. But I’m gonna do this.”

Jack smiled. “We’ll do it together, eh?”

Bitty nodded firmly. “Yes. Together.”

Together, they wound their way through Madison, parked the car in the driveway, walked in through the garage, and waited. Together, they greeted Bitty’s parents, home from running errands, with smiles and hugs. Together, they helped make dinner, traded small talk across the table, and cleared the dishes. Together, they sat Mr. and Mrs. Bittle back down for a talk. Hands clasped, they explained it, and watched as Mr. Bittle excused himself from the table. Together, they listened to the crashes and the cursing coming from the other room, nodded at Mrs. Bittle as she suggested they go for a walk, and left quietly through the front door. They returned an hour later, Bitty’s eyes wet and red, to find Mr. Bittle’s car gone, and a fierce but teary Mrs. Bittle greeting them at the door. She hugged them both as they came inside.

“Where’s Coach?” Bitty asked quietly.

“Your daddy’s gone for a drive,” Suzanne said. “He’ll be back a little later, once he’s cleared his head.”

Bitty nodded. His hand was still clenched in Jack’s, and he was sure he was squeezing hard enough to hurt, but he didn’t dare let go, not when Jack was the only thing keeping him on the ground.

“What are the chances you boys can head back to Providence a little earlier than planned?” Suzanne asked gently.

“I can call the airline,” Jack said, and Bitty fought hard not to start crying again. “It’s no problem.”

“Thank you, Jack.” Suzanne gave him a small smile. “Could I talk to Dicky for a moment?”

Jack’s eyes swept sideways, but Bitty nodded, his grip easing in increments until his hand slipped from Jack’s completely.

“I’ll see about those flights,” Jack said. He let his hand brush warm and solid across Bitty’s back as he left, and Bitty watched him go, hand feeling heavy and awkward in his absence.

“Dicky, honey, look at me.”

Bitty turned.

“I love you,” Suzanne said, serious. “I love you with all my heart, and nothing is ever gonna change that, alright?”

Bitty really wished he could stop crying.

“Don’t you ever think for one second that you don’t mean the world to me.” Suzanne reached over to take Bitty’s hand in hers. “You are my everything. All I have ever wanted in this life is for you to be safe and happy.” Her thumb was working meticulous circles into the back of his hand. “But we both know you can’t be either in this house.”

Bitty’s head had dropped back down to blink wetly at his shoes, and Suzanne reached out with her other hand to tip it back up.

“Jack seems like a wonderful young man,” she said, smiling.

Bitty nodded.

“He loves you,” Suzanne said. It wasn’t a question, but Bitty nodded anyway. “And you love him?”

Bitty let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “He’s my everything,” he breathed.

Suzanne smiled then, wider than before, and took Bitty’s face in her hands. “My boy. My brave, beautiful boy,” she whispered, and then the sobs he’d been holding back wrenched him forward, and he pressed his head into her shoulder, leaving tearstains on her blouse. She carded a hand through his hair, and it was achingly familiar, the kind of comfort provided after bad dreams and worse days. “I will fix this,” she said into his ear. “Your daddy is slow, and he is stubborn, and he needs time, whether he deserves it or not.”

Bitty’s arms squeezed tighter around her waist.

“I will fix this,” she said again, and Bitty recognized it as a promise, the same one she made after he had broken his dad’s favorite mug, or ripped the sweater his MooMaw had made him, or spent all afternoon locked in a school utility closet. And just like those times, Bitty believed her. He had been watching his mother fix broken things since he was old enough to see it happen, pieces glued back together, holes stitched up, bullies beaten. When Bitty broke down, Suzanne fixed him up.

“Just you wait,” she told him. She leaned back until they could look at each other again, and she reached one finger up to tap him on the nose. “You hold tight to that boy, you hear? I got a feeling he’s a winner.” She winked, and Bitty giggled despite himself. Then, squeezing his hand one last time, she said, “Get your things. I’ll drive you to the airport.”

So, together, six hours after having arrived, Jack and Bitty climbed into Suzanne’s SUV, drove to the airport, and boarded a flight to Providence. Bitty firmly, decidedly, with Jack’s hand pulling him down the jet bridge, did not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Bitty's just crying all the time these days. I can relate. 
> 
> New chapter every Wednesday. Today's chapter brought to you by "Animal Tracks" by Mountain Man, and "Before I Go" by Bearfoot. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=02hHRnfh6SY
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8PNtsyD4bdc
> 
> Special thanks this week to all you folks who went out and watched Breakfast With Scot - welcome to the Breakfast Club (that's what we're calling it now, FYI).
> 
> Do you share in my undying love of Suzanne Bittle? Let me know in a comment, or find me on tumblr as achoo-gesundheit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies, dear, patient readers. I didn't realize until Thursday night that Wednesday had already passed. Time, it seems, is getting away from me.

“Bitty! Bitty you here?”

“Is-“ Jack started, pulling away from Bitty, lips shiny from kissing. “Is that Scot?”

“Hmm?” Bitty replied, not opening his eyes. He leaned forward to chase Jack’s lips.

“Biiiiitttttttyyyyyyy!”

Bitty’s eyes flew open.

Jack, who was pinned beneath him on the bed, raised an eyebrow.

“Bitty, you in there?” And that was definitely Scot, banging on the door to Bitty’s bedroom.

Bitty fell off the bed with a thud, and began frantically searching for clothes. “Where are my shorts?” He hissed at Jack, who had pulled the covers up to his chin and was giggling into the pillow. “Jack!”

Jack shook his head, wheezing a little but otherwise staying quiet.

Outside the door, Scot said, “Let me know when you’re decent, eh?”

Bitty squeaked, grabbing the nearest item of clothing and tugging it on, and then yanking open the door. He was sure his face was beet red, and realized, too late, that the shorts he had pulled on were Jack’s. They were in very real danger of falling off. “Scot!” He yelped.

“Hey, Bitty,” Scot said, grinning. “Jack,” he added, tipping his head towards him.

Jack wriggled a hand out from under the blanket and waved.

“What are you doing here?” Bitty asked, still slightly out of breath, and reached a hand down to hike the shorts back up.

“Just got back from Toronto and thought I’d stop by,” Scot said. “Didn’t realize you’d have company.”

“Oh, well, Jack’s just visiting, you know, while the Haus is still empty,” Bitty said, flapping a hand at Jack.

Scot raised an eyebrow.

Bitty balked. “No! Not like that!”

Scot was full on laughing now, and Jack was back to giggling.

“Oh my goodness, quit it you two!” Bitty gave Scot a little push. “Go downstairs, I’ll be there in a sec. And you,” he pointed at Jack, “put some pants on. And quit your giggling!”

“You’re wearing my pants,” Jack pointed out.

“Oh for-“ Bitty shoved Scot again, who was doubled over with laughter. “Give us a minute!” he said, and then slammed the door shut. “Some help you were!” Bitty scoffed at Jack, letting the shorts drop to the ground and looking around for his own.

Jack snorted. “I’m not entirely sure what you expected me to do.”

“Something!” Bitty replied, picking up a shirt and sniffing it, before tossing it into the hamper. “Instead of just lying there all- all-“

“All what?”

Bitty turned to finish and saw that Jack had pushed the covers back down again in invitation. “All incorrigible, that’s what!” Bitty laughed, throwing Jack’s shorts at him. “Come on, get dressed, you oaf. I’ll make breakfast.”

Scot was rooting around in the fridge when Bitty got downstairs. He turned around in shock when Bitty entered.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” Scot asked.

“Wrong?” Bitty said, reaching around him to shut the fridge. “What are you talking about?”

“Bitty, there’s nothing in here,” Scot said. “You don’t even have butter!”

“There’s no butter?” Bitty asked, surprised, opening the fridge again. “Huh.”

“Seriously,” Scot said, tugging Bitty over to the table. “What’s going on?”

Bitty sat down with a shrug. “Nothing!” At Scot’s look he added, “I’ve been busy.”

Scot raised an eyebrow. “Eric Bittle, I know you have not been banging Jack Zimmerman twenty four seven for the last week and a half.”

“Of course I haven’t!” Bitty said, appalled.

“Then what?” Scot pressed. “Classes haven’t started yet, there’s no one here,” he waved around at the empty Haus. “You mean to tell me in a week and a half you haven’t even been grocery shopping?”

“Do we need food?” Jack asked, stepping into the kitchen. “I can run to the store.”

Scot looked between them, incredulous.

Bitty sighed. “Just stop at Annie’s and get some muffins or something.”

“Okay.” Jack came over to drop a kiss on the top of Bitty’s head. “Be right back.”

“Bitty,” Scot said, but Bitty shook his head.

Silence hung between them, broken only by the screen door slamming shut and Jack’s car engine rumbling to life. Bitty counted the seconds it took for Jack to pull out of the driveway and away from the Haus. He knew it was another twenty to get to the corner, three to take the right onto Founders, probably a few minutes to make it to the edge of campus.

“Bitty,” Scot said again, urgent.

Bitty shut his eyes, calculating the minutes until Jack came back. “I came out to my parents.”

“What? Bitty, that’s-” Scot’s voice was loud in the quiet kitchen, and Bitty flinched. Softer, Scot asked, “How was that?”

“Well, I’m fairly certain my mama is now the Madison PFLAG chapter president.”

Scot laughed, and Bitty smiled weakly. “My father broke a lamp.”

Scot blanched. “He- a lamp?”

“I think so. I wasn’t there. Jack and I went for a walk. Coach was gone when we got back, and my mama had cleaned it up, but there used to be a lamp on the living room table.” Bitty remembered the way the table looked over his mother’s shoulder, odd and empty, and the way the broom looked leaning against the door frame, like she’d just forgotten to put it away. “It wasn’t there when we got back, either.”

“Jeez,” Scot said. “What did your dad say when he got home?”

“If he said anything, we weren’t there to hear it.” At Scot’s puzzled look, Bitty added, “Jack rebooked our tickets. We were halfway to Providence by the time Coach got back.”

“Christ,” Scot breathed. “Have you talked to your mom since?”

Bitty nodded, an almost smile on his face. “She texts every morning.” He held out his phone, and showed Scot the message feed, which consisted mostly of hearts and rainbow flag emojis.

“Well, one out of two’s not the worst,” Scot laughed.

“Yeah,” Bitty agreed. “Not the worst.”

Scot cocked his head to the side. “But you haven’t been baking.”

Bitty sighed. “I got a job.”

“You- what?”

“I had to,” Bitty explained. “My scholarship only covers tuition and school related fees, my parents were paying for the rest.”

“But your mom-“

“Doesn’t pay the bills, is what I’m sure Coach told her,” Bitty said ruefully. “Anyway, I had to find a way to eat, so I got a job.” He gestured at the empty fridge. “Still waiting on my first paycheck.”

“God, Bitty, I’m so sorry,” Scot said.

Bitty did smile at him this time. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who should apologize, what with nothing here to feed you.”

Scot shook his head. “I can be sorry for you. You don’t deserve this shit. And shut up about the other stuff.” He reached over to sock him in the shoulder. “You fed me enough last year for six semesters.”

Laughing, Bitty stood up and Scot rose to meet him. In all the drama of the last two weeks, Bitty had forgotten how much he missed his friends. The Haus had been empty since they’d arrived, and Bitty was all too aware of the fact that three of its occupants wouldn’t be returning. He hated to say that he’d been dreading the start of the semester, a new Haus and a new job and the future looming massive and unfathomable in front of him. But there was Scot, lanky and awkward and loving in his kitchen. Scot’s height made for clumsy hugging, but he got his arms around Bitty’s shoulders and Bitty snuck his arms around his waist and felt his world begin to settle.

“So,” Scot said, pulling away but leaving his wrists resting on Bitty’s shoulders. “What’s this new job, then?” 

*

“Behind you!”

Bitty forced himself to keep still as Tania, the head pastry chef, flew behind him with a sheet pan full of tarts. He was still learning the rules of working in a professional kitchen, among them the one that reads: “behind you” is not an invitation to jump, terrified, out of the way. Bitty had accidentally crashed into three people so far. He'd also gotten locked in the walk-in fridge twice, once on accident and once when a prep chef thought it’d be funny to hold the door closed. Working in a bakery was not at all how he pictured it.

“Hot behind you!” Tania barked, and Bitty froze as she slid past him at a speed that was truly astonishing. He swore his apron flapped a little. She came back a second later, pausing next to Bitty’s station. “Eric,” she said.

“Yes?”

“You stuck?”

Bitty looked down and realized that in his efforts to keep still he’d stopped working entirely. He quickly went back to pressing tart dough into the rings piled up on his table. “No, ma’am! Totally fine.”

Tania snorted. “You’ll get used to it kid.” She pointed a finger in his face. “And don’t you ever call me ma’am.”

“Yes, ma-“ It physically hurt as Bitty cut off his ma’am mid-sentence. “Yes. Yep. Got it.”

“Good.”

Bitty let out a breath as she sped off, thinking maybe she was hiding a pair of roller skates under those non-slip shoes. He stared down at his own beat up sneakers and sighed. He knew he couldn’t afford a proper pair, but his Nikes felt out of place surrounded by Crocs and Danskos. Pete, the massive and generally overexcited bread baker, had dubbed him “the kitchen baby,” and had taken to narrating all of his professional firsts.

“Awww,” he said after Bitty’s first time getting stuck in the fridge. “Baby’s first lock-in.”

In Bitty’s first week he’d also earned baby’s first burn, baby’s first fuck-up, and baby’s first mixer explosion, the latter of which resulted in a cloud of powdered sugar descending on the kitchen. Tania had pointedly turned the mixer back down to speed one, and Pete had cackled into his baguettes. After the dust had settled, Bitty got to tick off another box.

“Awww,” Pete said, “baby’s first mop.”

Bitty was determined to not complain. He faced worse chirping from his teammates on a regular basis, after all, and it was something of a miracle he got this job in the first place. He had zero professional experience, and what with hockey and classes he could really only work three days a week, but Tania was six months pregnant and due in November, and on top of that they needed to bulk up the staff for the upcoming holiday season. They’d hired Bitty as a shaper, which mostly involved putting pie dough into pie pans, and occasionally involved peeling entire cases of apples or hauling dough out of industrial size mixing bowls. It was far from glamorous, but he got ten dollars an hour and free lunch, and it was thrilling to be in the same kitchen as professional chefs, even when he was doing their grunt work.

Pépère had only been open for a year, but already they were gathering quite the following. They had two locations in Boston and Cambridge, and now another one in Norwood, just a quick bus ride from Samwell. The bakeries were owned and operated by Angelique Simard, a French Canadian transplant who had fused the culinary trademarks of her homeland with those of a broader European pastry tradition. Pépère was getting accolades from every Boston publication, and Angelique was quickly rising to local stardom. Bitty had only met her once, his second day there, and she was categorically terrifying. Tania and Pete had seemed relatively unfazed by her visit until they found out she had come with the intention of baking. Tania’s smile had turned vicious and Pete’s eye had begun to twitch and Bitty watched in a grotesque fascination as she upended every project they had started that day. By the time she finally left, Tania was grinding her teeth in visceral pain and Pete had purposefully locked himself in the walk-in. Angelique shook Bitty’s hand like she was trying to crush it and welcomed him to the Pépère team. From the way Tania winced, Bitty imagined his shock was fairly visible.

But ultimately, Bitty’s coworkers were kind, if a little unusual, and he was glad for the distraction. Jack was heading back to Providence soon, and Bitty would have to face senior year without him, or Ransom, or Holster, or Lardo. Nursey and Dex would be moving into the Haus, along with Ollie and Wicks, and Bitty would be their captain, a concept he was still wrapping his head around. Add to that six more classes to take and a senior project, and the next nine months were bound to be a test of stamina more than anything else.

Bitty finished his tray of round tarts and carried it to the freezer, careful to announce his presence as he walked by the other bakers. After cleaning his station he clocked out, dumped his apron in the laundry hamper, and made for the bus stop. He had a meeting with the coaches today about the plans for pre-season, and he was unreasonably nervous about it.

Jack met him at Annie’s and, after voicing his disapproval, bought Bitty an iced coffee.

“You’ll be great,” he said, knocking his shoulder into Bitty’s.

Bitty fiddled with his straw. “You’re sweet, honey, but I just feel like I don’t know the first thing about being a captain.”

“I know,” Jack said, and reached into his pocket. “That’s why I made you a list.”

“You made me a-“ Bitty took the piece of paper. On top, in Jack’s neat block print, it said _10 Attributes of a Good Team Captain_. Bitty could have cried. “Jack Zimmermann, you are too much sometimes.”

Jack smiled. “You’ll notice that you already do like seventy-five percent of those things. That’s why your team picked you.”

Bitty clutched the list to his heart, and leaned up to steal a quick kiss. “You’re amazing.”

“I know.”

Bitty laughed, slapping a hand against Jack’s chest. “Alright there, Han, walk a princess to Faber, won’t you?”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “Is that from Star Wars?”

Bitty rolled his eyes. “Honey, I have never been more proud.” 

*

As Jack had predicted, his meeting with the coaches went fine, and the pre-season got off to a great start. Bitty reluctantly said goodbye to Jack, who was returning to Providence to start a pre-season of his own. Then life got very hectic, very fast, and Bitty set to work settling the new tenants into the Haus and taking the new frogs under his wing. He got paid, bought butter, and found time to make six pies by the time the first week of classes started.

He had pared his own class schedule down to just three days a week, and spent his remaining days either at the bakery or working on hockey. As September was rounding to a close, Bitty looked up one Sunday at the bakery to see Scot sitting at a table in the corner, munching on a pastry and furiously typing on his laptop. Now completely distracted, Bitty dilly dallied the last fifteen minutes of his shift and frantically clocked out. Scot looked up as Bitty walked over.

“Well I’ll de damned!” he said, dusting pastry crumbs off his fingers. “If it isn’t the baker himself!”

“What on earth are you doing here?” Bitty asked.

“I haven’t seen you in three weeks,” Scot explained, hitting a few keys before shutting his laptop. “Thought I’d come find you.”

“Oh, Scot, I’m so sorry!” Bitty took off his cap to run a hand through his hair. “I know you’ve been texting,” he said, “and I kept meaning to respond, but first Dex and Nursey were trying to saw their bunk bed in half, and then Whiskey got the frogs drunk and Payday started crying, and I’m here so much and Tania is real strict about me using my phone at work, and-“

“Bitty, yeah, I get it,” Scot interrupted. “There’s always something.” He smiled, a half-genuine sort of thing, and Bitty felt terrible.

"No,” he said firmly. “I should have texted back.”

Scot nodded. “Yeah,” he said, attitude kicking up a notch. “You should have.”

Bitty bristled a little at that. He was exhausted. He had never been this busy. It seemed like everyone in the world suddenly needed him to take care of them. He was captain now, and the frogs, the Haus squabbles, the whole team – they were all his responsibility. It was overwhelming. And here was Scot, who knew the kind of stress he was under, knew better than anyone except for maybe Jack, and still came all the way to Norwood to make Bitty feel like shit.

Anger, like it’d been flipped on by a switch, consumed Bitty, immediate and flood-like, and he broke.

“How dare you,” Bitty spat.

Scot’s eyes widened, and he recoiled in shock, but Bitty pressed on.

“I’m in about six feet over my head here!” Bitty said, realizing it was true. And then every overwhelming thought from the last two months was pressing down on him at once. He couldn’t stop. “I’ve got a team of arguing teenagers I’m supposed to be looking after, a surly, closeted, professional athlete of a boyfriend I’m supposed to be keeping a secret, a father who won’t talk to me, bills I can’t afford to pay, and all my friends had to go and graduate last spring!” Bitty was nearly out of breath, but he glared at Scot. “And you want me to be worried about some stupid texts?”

Scot blinked once, twice, and then nodded. He began packing up his stuff. “You know, I feel bad for you, Bitty, I really do. You’re going through some shit.” He stood up, slinging his bag up onto his shoulder, and said softly, “But you’re not the only one.” He looked up at Bitty. “A lot of my friends graduated, too. I thought I still had one here, though.” He shrugged, and turned away, but Bitty heard him say, “Guess I was wrong.”

By the time the anger had cleared enough for Bitty to process what he’d said, Scot was gone. Bitty stared at the door as something dark and twisting clenched in his gut. “Shit.”

He was still angry after practice the next day. And the next. And the next. Nursey began herding the frogs away from him in the locker room, Chowder was shooting him fretting glances constantly, and even Dex was avoiding coming too close. It felt like every emotion in his body had been replaced with rage, and Bitty didn’t know how to make it stop. After a week, he couldn’t remember what it felt like not to be some level of mad at someone all the time. Everything was grating, everything was irritating, everything was too much. If the coaches noticed him pushing the team harder during practice, they didn’t say anything, and if his professors noticed his participation dropping to nearly non-existent levels, they kept quiet, too. Bitty had been making his excuses to Jack – he couldn’t explain this to himself, he wasn’t about to try to make sense of it over Skype. But the Haus had noticed, and things came to a head the first weekend in October, when Bitty was working on his senior project.

Sometime in the previous semester Bitty (with the help of his advisor) had decided to look at the French culinary diaspora in the United States, particularly the way it had affected the development of uniquely American dishes within the overarching food culture. Tonight, he was researching meringues. Which, for Bitty, meant making meringues. He was on his seventh. The first six had fallen flat, literally, and Bitty was ready to throw the entire library cookbook out the window, followed by the bowl of unwhipped meringue currently attached to his mixer. Several boys had come in to the kitchen looking for snacks, but had left almost immediately in the wake of Bitty’s fiery stare. When his seventh meringue refused to peak, Bitty let out a string of uncharacteristic cursing, and threw the bowl into the sink. It landed with a crack, the glass breaking as it hit stainless steel. Bitty screamed at it.

“Stupid fucking bowl! Stupid fucking meringue! Stupid, stupid, stupid!” He felt the anger again, rising like bile in his throat, and it was consuming. There was no way to get it out. Bitty kicked a cabinet, and his shoe made a satisfying thunk against the wood. He kicked it again, and again, and again, until suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and he spun around, eyes blazing, to see Farmer, holding a phone. “What!” He shouted.

Farmer’s eyes narrowed. Behind her, hovering in the doorway, Chowder looked terrified. “Jack wants to talk to you,” she said, and held the phone out to him.

“What?” Bitty asked, still too loud.

“Take the phone,” Farmer said. She offered it again, and Bitty took it. She left without another word, dragging Chowder behind her.

Bitty stared at the screen, a blurry picture of a grinning Jack floating above a familiar number, and brought it up to his ear. “Jack,” he said, and he knew Jack would hear how wrong his voice sounded, would ask him too many questions, and Bitty was already calculating excuses in his head.

“Hey,” Jack said carefully, “Chowder said you were upset.”

“I’m fine,” Bitty snapped. “Chowder shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

Bitty grit his teeth. “Jack, I’m fine.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Bitty shouted. “Everybody is just freaking out all the time for no reason, and it’s really starting to test my nerves.”

“Freaking out?” Jack asked.

“Yes! Like Dex and Nursey, who won’t stop arguing, ever! It’s just all the time! And then Chowder, who panics if someone shuts a door too hard, and Scot, ooohh Scot, who can’t go a few damn days without a text and decides to fucking _stalk_ me and-“

“Woah, woah, Bitty, slow down,” Jack said. “Scot’s stalking you?”

“He came to the bakery,” Bitty said, furious. “Came to my place of employment and sat there, for hours! Just waiting for me to come out so he could tell me I’m a terrible friend.”

“He said that?”

“He may as well have.”

“No, Bitty, tell me what happened,” Jack said. “Why are you fighting with Scot?”

“He just-“ Bitty clenched his fist and kicked the cabinet again. “He just makes me so angry! God, Jack, I’m so angry! All the time!”

“Why are you angry?” Jack asked, and he was so genuine and so concerned and Bitty was still so angry.

“I don’t know!” Bitty wailed. “I don’t know!” He collapsed into a kitchen chair and dropped his head into his hands, ignoring the tears staining his cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“Hey, hey, shh, okay, it’s gonna be okay,” Jack murmured, and Bitty let the words sink into him, begging them to be true. “How long have you been feeling this way?”

Bitty sniffed. “A few weeks.”

“A few-“ Jack paused. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bitty clenched his eyes closed and shook his head. “I didn’t know how.”

“Bits, you have to tell me this stuff. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t tell me stuff.”

“I know,” Bitty said.

“Were you worried I’d be mad?”

“No! No, I just-“ Bitty stopped.

After a second, Jack asked, “Just what?”

“I was worried I’d be mad,” Bitty said. “I’m mad at everyone, Jack. I don’t even know why anymore, but I am.” He let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t wanna risk being mad at you, too.”

Jack sighed, static and subdued through the phone. “Okay,” he said. “Alright. What can I do?”

“Jack-“

“No, we’re not going to argue about this,” Jack said, cutting him off. “You’re hurting, and I’m going to help. Tell me what I can do.”

Bitty dropped his head to the table and ignored the way the phone was lodged somewhat painfully between his ear and the wood. “I don’t know,” he whispered. There was a smudge of under-whipped meringue near his nose and Bitty went nearly cross-eyed as he tried to focus on it. Then, his eyes flew up to the sink where the pieces of his shattered mixing bowl were scattered. “I broke your bowl.”

“What?”

“The bowl for the mixer you bought me,” Bitty said. “I threw it in the sink and it broke.”

“Bitty-“ Jack started.

“I’m sorry,” Bitty interrupted, teary again. “I’m sorry.”

And then Jack was laughing, and it shocked Bitty into sitting up, eyes widening.

“What?” Bitty asked, hating the whine in his own voice. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Jack wheezed between giggles. “ _Crisse_ , Bitty, that’s great.”  

“Jack! I broke your birthday gift! That’s not great!”

“No, no, it is,” Jack said, and Bitty suddenly wished he could see him, his red cheeks and that goofy grin he knew Jack always wore when laughing. He’d gotten so used to Jack’s easy presence in the Haus, but in the last few weeks he hadn’t even had time to miss him. Jack chuckled again and Bitty’s heart squeezed in his chest. “That’s something I can fix,” Jack said, and he was talking about the bowl but Bitty felt the pressure in his chest loosen just a little. “We’ll get you a metal one next time, eh?”

The laugh escaped before Bitty could stop it, and he smiled. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

“Come visit me,” Jack said suddenly, and just like that the smile was gone.

“I’d love to, sweetheart, you know I would, but I can’t right now,” Bitty said sadly.

“It doesn’t have to be right now. But sometime soon.”

“I have work-“

“Take a weekend off.”

“Jack! I just started!” Bitty said. “I can’t just ask for a bunch of time off!”

“Not a bunch, just a weekend,” Jack said, serious. “You need a break.”

“But the team-“

“Doesn’t have practice on the weekends anyway.”

“Jack-“

“I miss you,” Jack interrupted.

Bitty sighed. “I miss you, too, honey.”

“Just a weekend. Please.”

Bitty rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Does it have to be Providence? I know you’re busy, too, but if you could come to Samwell that would be-“

“No, I- I have a surprise for you,” Jack said. “But it’s here, in Providence.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not gonna lie, I’m not sure I can handle any surprises right now.”

Jack went silent.

“Jack?” Bitty asked. “Are you still there?”

Jack’s voice crackled back to life. “I came out to the team,” he said.

“You what? Jack, oh my gosh,” Bitty babbled. “Why? I mean, how? How was – was it okay?”

“It was kind of an accident,” Jack said. “I got back and everyone was asking me about my summer, where I was and everything. Snowy kept giving me these looks, you know? I think Marty must have winked at me fifteen times.”

“Oh my gosh,” Bitty breathed.

“So, I just told them.”

“Oh my gosh.”

“Yeah.”

“And they’re-“ Bitty made a vague hand gesture before realizing Jack couldn’t see him. “They all took it alright?”

“Yeah,” Jack laughed. “I think so.”

Bitty beamed. “Jack, honey, that’s so wonderful!”

“They want to meet you.”

Bitty’s mouth dropped open in shock. “They – what?”

“They’ve been asking,” Jack explained. “You sent them all those pies last season, and then when they found out you play hockey, well, they really want to meet you.”

“Oh my gosh,” Bitty said for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Please come,” Jack said.

Since meeting Jack, moments in Bitty’s life that had once seemed impossible were suddenly happening with more and more frequency. The idea that a group of professional hockey players wanted to meet him, a gay baker from Georgia, was currently vying for the number one spot on that particular list.

“Bits?” Jack asked.

Bitty’s heart was beating out a samba inside his ribcage, and a giggle bubbled out of his mouth. “Honey, of course. Of course I’ll come.”

“’Swawesome,” Jack said, and it sounded so silly that Bitty had to giggle again. “Make sure you bring your skates,” Jack added.

“I will,” Bitty promised.

“And Tater wants to know if you can make any Russian desserts.”

It felt good to laugh, Bitty realized. He hadn’t really laughed since the semester started weeks ago, since Jack left. The Haus had been unusually glum, something Bitty had originally attributed to the absence of Ransom, Holster, and Lardo, but was beginning to suspect had more to do with him. In trying so hard to be a good captain, a good student, and a good baker, he’d managed to forget how to be a good friend.

“I think I need to call Scot,” Bitty said, sobering up.

“I think that’s probably a good idea,” Jack replied.

“He probably hates me now.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t.”

“I love you,” Bitty said.

Once again, Bitty wished he could see Jack’s smile, but he was sure he could hear it. “I love you, too,” Jack said.

The call ended with a click, and for the first time in weeks, Bitty wasn’t angry. It felt like a miracle. He pulled up the contact list on his phone, scrolling through until he found Scot’s name. He hesitated for just a moment, thumb hovering over the call button, but then he took a breath, and then another, and dialed. It only rang twice before going straight to voicemail, and Bitty cringed as Scot’s cheery recording asked him to leave a message after the tone. Steeling himself, Bitty waited for the beep.

“Hi, Scot, it’s Bitty. I’m just calling to say I’m so, so sorry. I was a complete meatball the other day, and there’s no excuse. You were right, about everything, and I’m so sorry. I- I miss you, and I absolutely can’t do senior year without you. Please call me. I’ll make you breakfast, or buy you breakfast – for the whole semester if I have to. Please just-“

A serene robotic voice cut him off, informing him that he’d run out of time, and asking him if he’d like to start again. Bitty pressed one to send the message, and stood up. He looked around at the mess he’d made of the kitchen, and ignored it in favor of marching upstairs. He found Nursey, Dex, Chowder, and Farmer scattered around Lardo’s old room. Nursey and Dex exchanged a wary look, Chowder looked like he might cry, and Farmer was glaring at him like he’d just kicked a puppy.

“I’m sorry,” Bitty started, “for the way I’ve been acting. A lot’s been going on, and it’s not an excuse by any means, but I’d like to explain it, if that’s alright.”

Farmer’s glare softened a smidge into something more like a hard stare, and she gestured to Nursey’s desk chair. “Sit,” she said, and Bitty did, stifling the laugh that threatened to escape at the thought that in a bedroom belonging to two fairly large and intimidating hockey players, Farmer was absolutely and unquestionably in charge. “Explain,” she said. “But I’m letting you know right now, I reserve the right to punch you in the nuts if this is some crybaby bullshit.”

Nursey snickered, and Chowder looked like he might faint, but Bitty valiantly schooled his face into something resembling cowed, and nodded.

“Fine then,” Farmer said. “Go.”

By the time Bitty got through the story of Jack’s visit to Madison, the reasons for his job, the struggles of captaincy, and his fight with Scot, Nursey and Dex were looking shell shocked, Farmer was staring at her shoes, and Chowder was openly crying.

“I don’t have everything figured out yet,” Bitty told them. “I don’t know how I’m going to handle everything.” He took a breath. “But so far, I haven’t been handling it at all. So I’m going to fix that.”

“If there’s anything we can do to help,” Dex said quietly, “you’ll let us know, right?”

“Yeah man, we got your back,” Nursey added.

“You’re gonna be the best captain ever,” Chowder sniffed, and Farmer patted him on the back.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and Bitty held up a hand.

“Oh, hush,” he said quickly. “Y’all are wonderful.” He smiled. “Thank you.”

This was met with an awkward silence that was only broken when Nursey cleared his throat and offered to kick everyone’s ass in FIFA. Farmer rolled her eyes as Chowder and Dex both reached for controllers.

“Boys,” she muttered.

Bitty chuckled, excusing himself. He cleaned the kitchen, meticulous and slow, and finally retreated back to his room. The exhaustion of the day, of weeks really, was catching up to him, and just before he switched his lamp off his phone pinged with an incoming text.

 _You’re such a drama queen_ , Scot said.

Another ping.

_Breakfast at Jerry’s tomorrow._

And another.

 _I’m ordering everything_.

Bitty grinned, warmth blooming in his chest, and for the first time since Jack left, fell asleep in a bed that didn’t feel heart-wrenchingly empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter every Wednesday (theoretically). Today's chapter brought to you by "Rivers and Roads" by The Head and the Heart. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SpFB8fwqYw
> 
> My eternal gratitude to everyone who leaves kudos and comments every week. You're peaches, all of you. 
> 
> Questions? Thoughts? Hugs? Leave a comment, or find me on tumblr as achoo-gesundheit.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, there is some homophobic language used in this chapter.

The first Friday in October found Bitty on a train to Providence, Tania granting him time off on the caveat that he make it up during the quickly approaching holiday insanity. Bitty would be finished with classes by mid-December, and the hockey season would go on hiatus until students returned in January. Bitty had no plans for Christmas. He was sure he’d have time to spare.

He had managed to snag a seat on the express train, and it was due to arrive in Providence any minute. Familiar scenery sped past through reinforced Plexiglas, and Bitty tried not to squirm. In less than two days, he’d be meeting the majority of the Providence Falconers on their home ice. He’d already met some of them, of course. Marty and his wife had graciously invited him to dinner more than once, and Snowy had gone out for drinks with them after one of last season’s games. But this felt different. Bitty had spent more time than he’d care to admit selecting an outfit, and had hemmed and hawed about whether to bring his hockey skates or his figure skates, before just finally grabbing an extra bag out of his closet and packing both. There was no reason to be this nervous, he knew, but he thought about the way Samwell hockey had always felt like a family to him, and to Jack, and couldn’t manage to downplay the importance of this meeting. This was Jack’s new family, after all.

Jack was waiting for him when the train pulled into Providence Station. Bitty very carefully did not run to meet him, but it was a close thing. Jack closed the last few steps between them and wrapped Bitty into a hug, and it was the most comfortable Bitty had felt in longer than he cared to admit.

“It’s so good to see you,” Jack said, leaning back.

“Honey, you have no idea,” Bitty replied with a sigh.

Jack smiled, and took Bitty’s bags. Bitty looked around the station, empty now of the commuter rush but still busier than he wanted. Jack led them towards the exit, stopping once to take a picture with a flushed fan, before walking purposefully towards the parking garage. Bitty slid into the passenger seat, and held his breath as Jack reached over him to buckle his seat belt, fingers grazing the outside of Bitty’s thigh.

“Incorrigible,” Bitty breathed, and Jack smirked, car roaring to life around them.

It felt like it took years to reach Jack’s apartment, and even longer to park the car, make it up the front walk, and fumble, laughing, with too many keys. But finally the front door was shut with them on the other side, and Jack’s lips were pressed against his own, his fingers tangled in Bitty’s hair, body warm and demanding as Bitty scrabbled frantically with their clothes.

Bitty wrangled Jack’s hoodie off of him, and it hit the ground with a clack as the zipper impacted hardwood. Jack pulled Bitty’s sweater over his head and threw it, hands immediately finding their way under Bitty’s button down.

“Bedroom,” Bitty gasped, shoving Jack backwards a few steps. “Now.”

Jack grinned in response, and it took Bitty just a second too long to realize what was about to happen.

“Jack, no!” Bitty laughed, but Jack was already surging forward, throwing Bitty over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and hauling him into the bedroom. Bitty halfheartedly protested, whacking him on the shoulder a few times, but then he was dropped onto Jack’s comforter and Jack was pulling his pants down his legs, and all thoughts of protest fled his mind. God, but he’d missed this. 

Ten o’clock found Bitty and Jack still in bed, having missed dinner entirely but nonetheless thoroughly reacquainted with each other. Bitty was snuggled up against Jack’s side, head resting on his chest, and Jack was running careless fingers through Bitty’s hair.

“How are you feeling?” Jack asked quietly.

“Mmmm,” Bitty murmured, Jack’s heartbeat steady and comforting in his ear. “Sleepy.”

Jack huffed out a laugh, placing a kiss in Bitty’s hair. “I meant in general, about everything that’s been going on.”

“Better,” Bitty said, and it was true. 

“Are you still angry?”

Bitty sighed. Leave it to Jack to ruin a perfect moment by being too concerned. “Yeah, honey, I am.” He rolled his head back so he could look at Jack. “But just sometimes, when I remember.”

 _Madison_ and _Coach_ were left unspoken.

Jack leaned down for a kiss, smiling when Bitty pinched his side in return.

“Enough of this talk, mister,” Bitty said. “It’s time we get you fed.”

Jack groaned as Bitty slid off the bed. “It’s late. I’ll eat tomorrow.”

“Excuse you,” Bitty said. “No boyfriend of mine will be going to bed hungry. Besides, you’re a professional hockey player, you need your protein.” And with a final wink Bitty slipped out the bedroom door, Jack’s laughter tumbling after him. 

Bitty spent all of the next day baking, and on Sunday morning packed Jack’s car full of a truly silly amount of desserts, including a box of vatrushkas for Tater. They pulled up to the Falconer’s practice center around nine o’clock, and Bitty was shaking.

Jack put the car in park and reached over to lay a hand on his shoulder. “They’re gonna love you,” he said, and Bitty smiled.

“Help me with these pies,” Bitty said.

Jack took Bitty’s gym bag, skates draped over the strap, and gathered up the pie boxes from the back seat. Bitty followed him into the rink, arms laden with Tupperware containers and Ziploc bags full of treats. The training facility was sparkling, new and shiny, and it made the used and tired corners of Faber seem like a dump. Jack led him into the locker room, twice the size of the one at Samwell, and dropped Bitty’s stuff next to his locker. They dropped the desserts in the lounge, which featured a sea of non-radioactive sofas and several plasma screen TV’s, and then Bitty changed into his gear with wide eyes, yelping when he leaned over to lace his skates and Jack tapped him on the ass.

“Someone’s handsy this morning,” Bitty mumbled, and then shrieked again when Jack picked him up at the waist, lifting him into the air. “Excuse you!” Bitty shouted, reached behind him to slap at Jack. “Put me down this instant!”

Jack laughed into his neck as Bitty flailed.

Bitty had just managed to land a soft kick to Jack’s knee when Marty walked in, covered skates thudding dully on the floor.

Jack lowered Bitty to the ground, and Bitty waved, blushing.

“Hey, kids,” Marty said with a smile. “You planning to cuddle all morning, or you coming out to skate?”

“We are absolutely done cuddling,” Bitty said firmly, taking a step towards the exit.

Marty laughed, and Bitty turned around to see Jack pouting behind him.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. I’m going out to skate!” Bitty said, throwing his hands in the air. He walked past a chuckling Marty into the hallway, and stopped. “I have no idea where I’m going!” He shouted back into the locker room.

Jack and Marty were both laughing now, but they dutifully tromped out to the hall, Jack bumping his shoulder as he passed.

Most of the team was already on the ice when they got there. After much deliberation, Bitty had opted to wear his hockey skates, and was grateful for the choice when Marty handed him a stick a moment later. He was haltingly introduced to the Falconers he didn’t know, Tater enveloping him in an enormous hug, Poots looking even younger than Bitty could have imagined. They were all friendly, shaking his hand and whacking him on the shoulder, and Bitty was overwhelmed and delighted and so glad he’d come.

Jack was skating circles behind him, grinning, and Bitty’s stomach somersaulted.

After the last of the introductions, they broke into teams for a half-hearted scrimmage, Bitty and Jack shuffled to opposing sides because otherwise, “That’s cheating,” Tater informed him. Bitty found himself on a line with Poots and Marty, and they got control of the puck from the get-go. Bitty had a few moments of panic as he realized he was playing with professionals on an NHL rink, but then Poots slammed the puck towards him and he was flying down the ice and it was just hockey. He saw Tater coming straight at him, grinning like a madman, and he dodged him neatly, nearly tripping him in the process. He heard Jack laughing to his left, and suddenly he was there at Bitty’s shoulder, vying for the puck, and it felt like Samwell. Bitty cut to the right, swooping in near the goal, and Snowy stepped aside to let him smack it into the net. There was an uproar from Jack’s team about cheating, but Poots was there to join his celly and Thirdy scored the next point against them and it was the most fun Bitty had had playing hockey in longer than he’d care to remember.

They stopped the game some time later on a 3-3 tie, neither of the goalies trying particularly hard to stop shots, and Jack met Bitty towards center ice for a hug. Bitty was aware of the looks they were getting from the team, none of them angry, but several seemed surprised at Jack’s outward displays of affection.

Bitty left the ice after to let them run some drills, plopping down on a bench and taking out his phone. He snapped a picture of the rink, uploading it to Twitter with the caption, _Thanks to the @Falconers for these remedial hockey lessons ;)_ , before opening notes. He watched them practice, jotting down ideas for things to implement with his own team, and then Jack was skating over to the side boards to wave him back down to the ice. 

“You wanna show off a little?” Jack asked, and Bitty eyes widened. “I may have told them you used to figure skate,” Jack added sheepishly at Bitty’s look.

Behind them, Poots had his phone out. “Oh my god, you guys, there’s Youtube videos.” 

“I want to see!” Tater bellowed, pushing his way over, and then there were six professional hockey players crowded around Poots and his phone to watch. The opening chords of a Dixie Chicks song streamed out of Poots’ iphone speakers and Bitty launched himself onto the ice.

“No, sir! Just put that away, mister!” Bitty yelled, but Poots skated away from him, music still blaring.

“Woah, you were a regional champ?” Poots asked, slightly awed. “Hot damn, look at that outfit.”

Bitty remembered this routine. It was near the end of his run as a figure skater. He was fifteen and out to no one but himself, and the Dixie Chicks had for several years been at the center of a heated debate about what country musicians could and could not sing about. But Bitty’s mother loved them, and Bitty loved them, and they sang a song about free speech and being yourself. Bitty skated to it in a sequined suit jacket and too tight pants, with a rainbow ribbon tied around his wrist. He placed fourth, despite skating a cleaner and more advanced routine than the third place contestant. It was the last time he’d ever skate competitively.

“Wow,” Poots said as the video went on. “You were seriously good, man.”

Jack had skated closer to watch over Poots’ shoulder, and he looked up at Bitty with heavy eyes that made Bitty want to drag him off the ice and kiss him senseless.

Instead, Bitty smiled at Poots and waved a hand dismissively. “You’re sweet, honey, but it wasn’t all that.”

“Can you still do this?” Poots asked, ignoring Bitty’s brush off.

“Definitely not,” Bitty scoffed. “My body’s just not conditioned for that kind of nonsense anymore.” 

“He used to do jumps at hockey practice,” Jack chimed in, and then Tater and Thirdy had joined Poots in begging for a demonstration. 

“I’ll get your skates,” Jack said excitedly, and Bitty let out a long-suffering sigh. But Jack brushed his hand as he skated by and it sent a zing up Bitty’s arm. He smiled after him.

“He’s different around you,” Thirdy said, and Bitty turned around. “In a good way,” he clarified, throwing his hands up in defense.

“He seems happier,” Poots added, still tapping away on his phone.

“Yes,” Tater agreed, slinging a heavy arm around Bitty’s shoulders. “He is more- what is word? Open?”

 _Out_ , Bitty’s brain supplied, thinking suddenly of Eric’s big smiles and easy autographs, and Sam’s quiet words in crowded hallways, _he came out_. Bitty’s heart swelled in his chest and he turned to face Tater, wrapping his arms around his waist for a hug. Tater returned it with gusto, and Bitty laughed. “Thanks y’all,” Bitty said, looking out at each of them in turn. “For taking care of him.”

“He deserves it,” Marty said, and the team nodded in agreement.

Except for Poots, who said, “Oh my god,” and held up his phone to show a Facebook picture of Bitty from New Year’s Eve. “You know Eric McNally?”

*

Bitty returned to Samwell feeling undoubtedly lighter, and, in serene and increasing seconds, something resembling hopeful. The rest of October was a flurry of activity, between hockey practice and Pépère and researching his senior project, as well as determinedly repairing what damage he’d done to his friendship with Scot. That, he had decided, was something worth making time for.

By the time Halloween rolled around, Bitty and Scot made a point to see each other every couple of days, their standing coffee dates at Annie’s a perfect excuse not only to catch up but to recaffeinate. Halloween, it seemed, was Scot’s favorite holiday, and he’d managed to rope both Bitty and an enthusiastic Lardo into a group costume collaboration.

So, Haus packed to the brim, alcohol flowing and music shaking the already unstable foundation, the SMH Halloween party kicked off with Scot, Bitty, and Lardo descending the stairs dressed as the final incarnation of Destiny’s Child. It had taken some serious thrifting and a lot of careful tailoring, but there they were, wigs and all. Lardo and Scot were both stunning, walking in heels like they were born to. Bitty, who had demanded to be Beyoncé, was regretting that decision as he hobbled gingerly through the crowds. After his third beer, he was sure the only thing keeping him upright was false confidence and Scot’s arm linked through his.

The party, it seemed, was a hit. Nursey and Dex had taken over as official party planners (Ransom and Holster had given them a twenty-seven page guide before they left), and so far they were filling their predecessors’ shoes with gusto. But said predecessors were not in attendance, and there were swaths of new faces that Bitty didn’t recognize. And it could have been the alcohol, but only an hour or so into the party a wave of uneasiness settled heavily in Bitty’s stomach. His face must have gone weird, because Scot shot him a concerned look, but Bitty grinned at him, lips shiny, and steered him towards the kitchen to fetch another beer.

At some point, the music shifted to a Destiny’s Child greatest hits collection, and the trio, all more than a little tipsy, was cajoled into performing. Bitty found himself standing on the coffee table lip-synching “Say My Name,” Scot and Lardo on the floor behind him, singing along and doing some kind of un-choreographed back up dancing that was sending Ford and Chowder into uncontrollable fits of giggles. From this vantage point, Bitty could see nearly everyone, and his vision swam with unfamiliar faces and too many beers. As the song ended, Bitty finished with a flourish and took a bow, ignoring the way his stomach flipped when he bent over. Lardo and Scot each reached out a hand to help him down from the coffee table. Miraculously, he stuck the landing, heels landing on the carpet and sending a jolt all the way up Bitty’s legs to his brain. If he hadn’t already had infinite respect for Beyoncé, spending a night in her shoes would have guaranteed it.

The music had stopped, Nursey fumbling for the next set list, when one of the boys that Bitty didn’t know elbowed his friend and stage-whispered, too loud and jeering, “Who’s with the fucking twinks?”

If the room wasn’t quiet enough before, it certainly was now. To their credit, the entire Samwell Men’s hockey team whipped around, Dex already making his way across the room, but Scot beat him to it. How he moved that quickly in heels was a mystery, but in what seemed like a split second he was standing next to the dude, lipstick grin on his face. 

“Why, honey?” Scot said, words dripping from his mouth with what Bitty could only describe as malice. “You interested?” 

The kid was stunned for a second, and Scot took it as an opportunity to wink and place a sloppy kiss on his cheek, leaving an unmistakable red stain on his skin.

This sent the kid into motion, shoving Scot away and wiping frantically at his face, like he’d been infected. “Fuck off, faggot!” he shouted, and Scot, still flailing, tripped over his heels and tumbled backwards, landing on his ass with a thud.

The room was pitched into chaos. Before Bitty even saw him move, Dex had a fist clenched in the kid’s shirt, the other slamming into his face with a startling ferocity. His friends, the group of boys Bitty didn’t recognize, had hands on Dex to pull him off, but then the rest of the hockey team was crowding around them, and it was devolving into an all out brawl.

Bitty had the absurd thought that he was entirely too tipsy to whistle.

Lardo had disappeared from his side, and he panicked for a second, thinking she had thrown herself into the melee, but she reappeared a moment later with a pot and a wooden spoon, wordlessly handing them to Bitty. Bitty ignored the churning in his gut, climbed back up on the coffee table, and banged. “Enough!” He shouted, with as much authority as he could muster, still drunk and wearing a crop top. Miraculously though, the fighting stopped. Bitty adjusted his wig and took a breath. “Anyone who is not on the Samwell Men’s hockey team can get their butts outta my house,” he said firmly. No one moved, and Bitty raised an eyebrow. “Right. Now.”

There was an eruption of motion as people stepped away from each other, and a wall of hockey players herded people towards the door until the Haus was emptied out.

Bitty stayed on the table. “I don’t know which one of y’all invited those boys to this house,” he said, doing his best Captain Jack voice. No one met his eyes. “And I don’t particularly care.” A few people looked up then, expressions varying from surprised to angry. “Who you hang out with on your own time is your own business. But,” Bitty let it hang there for a moment, scanning down the line of them. “If I ever hear that kind of language in this house, or from this team again, you best get used to parking your butt on the bench, because you sure as hell won’t be skating on my ice.” Silence. “Am I making myself clear here, boys?”

A chorus of yeses and yeahs and one “Yes, sir!” that Bitty was sure came from Chowder filled the living room.

“Good,” Bitty said, nodding. “Now clean this stuff up and head on home, I’m afraid this party’s over.” With that, he hopped down from the coffee table, tripped on the carpet, and face planted into the rug.

Nursey and Dex were there a second later, hauling him up, as the rest of the team slowly began to shuffle out of the Haus, disposing of Solo cups and crumpled napkins on their way. Once he was upright, Bitty looked around for Scot, and finally found him on the floor with Lardo, propped up against the back of the sofa. Bitty waved away Nursey and Dex and dropped down beside him.

“Are you alright?”

Scot nodded. “Got kicked,” he said, hand on his side.

“Someone kicked you?” Bitty asked, appalled. 

“Nah,” Scot said, waving a hand. “I think it was an accident. I was still on the floor when the fight started.”

“Fucking bastards,” Lardo muttered, and Bitty scoffed in agreement.

“Can you stand up?” Bitty asked, placing a careful hand on Scot’s shoulder.

Scot was silent for a second, clearly thinking about it, before he shook his head. “Not gonna lie,” he said, poking a finger towards Bitty’s face, “you’re looking a little blurry. 

“Alrighty then,” Bitty said, turning so he was sitting next to Scot against the sofa. “Floor it is.”

“I’m gonna go get us some water,” Lardo said, rising with an easy grace that baffled Bitty. “Holler if you need something.”

“Thanks, sugar,” Bitty said, and she was gone.

Next to him, Scot pulled his wig off and let his head fall back to thump against the sofa. “So, best Halloween party ever, am I right?” he said, deadpan, and Bitty snorted.

“I’m so sorry, Scot.”

Scot waved him off. “Whatever. People have called me worse.” He let his arm drop against his side and winced again. “Although not usually while I’m wearing a crop top.”

Bitty leaned his head to rest against Scot’s shoulder, and smiled. “You look stunning, by the way.”

“I do, don’t I?” Scot said happily. His eyes fell shut. “I feel stunning.” There was a beat of silence, and then he turned his head to look at Bitty. “I wish I could dress like this all the time.”

“And what a gift that would be to the world.”

Bitty’s head snapped up at the same time Scot’s did, and they were both met with the sight of Shitty, wearing nothing but a very small bathing suit and a pair of goggles on his head.

“Quite the party you’ve got going on here, dudes,” he said.

“It suffered an unfortunate and premature demise,” Scot said sadly.

“Run out of beer?”

“Not quite,” Bitty said. “But we did have to run out some unfriendly freshmen.”

Shitty’s face went stormy. “Was it those fucking LAX punks? Did they forget their fucking place again?”

“Their particular affiliation was unclear,” Bitty said, proud of himself for not slurring.

“But we’re pretty sure it wasn’t the QSA,” Scot added, and Bitty snorted.

Shitty’s eyes widened. “Those fuckers do something to you?”

“I was crowned a twink and a faggot,” Scot said, smile dismissive. “And all before ten o’clock!”

“Those fuckers,” Shitty breathed. “You don’t know who they were?” he asked Bitty. 

Bitty shook his head. “They came with some of the frogs, I think.”

Shitty opened his mouth, but Bitty cut him off. 

“It’s fine, Shitty. Really. I talked with the team, and I don’t think this sort of nonsense will be happening again.”

“You should have seen him,” Scott said. “I think some of the freshman cried.”

Shitty beamed, holding out his hand for a fist bump, which Bitty returned with a giggle. “That’s my boy.”

“Sorry you missed the party,” Bitty said.

“Nah, it’s cool,” Shitty replied. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to educate those young fuckers about toxic masculinity and its effects on the overarching power of the patriarchy.”

“Amen, brother,” Scot said, nodding.

Shitty laughed. “Alright, brahs, I’m glad you’re both okay.” He reached down to ruffle Scot’s curls. “Could you ladies tell me, perchance, where the third child of destiny has escaped to?”

“She’s in the kitchen, I think,” Bitty said, pointing.

“Perfect,” Shitty said and pulled his goggles down over his eyes. “Pardon me, gentledudes, but I’m in desperate need of some breaststroke practice.”

Bitty and Scot groaned, and from the kitchen Lardo shouted, “He definitely needs the practice!”

Shitty gasped in feigned offense and made for the kitchen, shouting endearments along the way.

Bitty and Scot stayed leaning against the sofa, giggles eventually receding into easy breathing, heels kicked off and abandoned on the floor. They heard Shitty and Lardo go upstairs, and the Haus faded into after-party quiet as floors stopped creaking and doors slid shut. Bitty knew they should probably get up. There was still cleaning to do, and his bed would certainly be more comfortable than the beer-stained living room floor. But as much as he’d reassured Shitty, he couldn’t stop thinking about the party. Scot was right, he’d certainly been called worse in his life, but Samwell had always been something of a haven. He hated that this place, this house where’d he’d been building a new life, an open life, was touched with the hatred he’d only ever known in Madison. The anger was back, bubbling and volatile in his gut, but it had a face now, young and sneering and mouthing words that struck long unplayed chords in Bitty’s heart.

“Damn them,” Bitty said. “Damn them all.”

Scot linked his arm with Bitty’s and nodded. “Amen, brother. Amen.”

*

When Jack found out he was furious.

“They called you a what?”

“Jack, honey, it’s really not important,” Bitty said, wishing, not for the first time, that he could reach through his computer screen and touch Jack. “I’m fine, Scot’s fine - we’ve both suffered worse than a smartass teenager.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, Bits,” Jack said softly.

Bitty grimaced. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“You shouldn’t be the one apologizing.”

“No, I suppose that’s what my empathetic Canadian boyfriend is for,” Bitty said, joking, but Jack’s face stayed steely.

“That asshole should be the one apologizing.”

Bitty sighed. “We’ve been over this. We don’t even know who he is, and honestly I wouldn’t want to see him again if I did. Besides,” he laughed, a little self-consciously, “I’ve got enough to be angry about.”

“Bitty…”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Bitty said quickly, flapping a hand at him. “Bad joke.”

“Are you sure?” 

Bitty smiled in a way he hoped was reassuring. “Of course.”

Jack’s video went blurry, and the sound cut out as their connection lagged. 

“Jack?” Bitty asked.

“…might happen when I come out.” Jack was saying, and Bitty frantically interrupted.

“Hang on, honey, I lost you there for a sec,” he said, having clearly missed something.

Jack’s face came back into focus and he was worried, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around himself.

“What were you saying?”

There was a beat of silence. “I can’t help worrying that this is the kind of thing that might happen when I come out,” Jack said, and not being able to wrap him in a hug was causing Bitty physical pain.

“Honestly,” Bitty said, quiet, “It might.” Jack curled further into himself and Bitty pressed on. “But you’ve got a whole team of people, both on the ice and off, that are going to be fighting for you.”

Jack looked up at that. “You think I’m worried about me?”

Bitty crinkled his nose in confusion. “What?”

“I’m not worried about me,” Jack said, serious. “You’re right, I’ve got PR teams and management and hulking defensemen all ready to throw punches for me.” He shook his head. “But you… you didn’t sign up for this shit.”

And Bittty’s heart swelled in his chest, but he shook his head. “Now stop right there,” he said firmly. “Of course I signed up for this. I knew what I was getting into, Jack, and I guarantee you every minute of it has, and will be worth it. Don’t you ever doubt that.”

Jack blushed, and unable to reach out to him, Bitty’s hands clenched into fists in his lap.

“And if you think I don’t have just as many people fighting for me as you do,” Bitty laughed, “Well, then remind me to send you a picture of Dex’s bandaged knuckles tomorrow.”

Jack smiled at that, still small and unsure, but a smile nonetheless. “They’re good kids,” he said, and Bitty nodded.

“They certainly are.”

*

“If I ever see that kind of behavior from any of you again, I’ll have you skating suicides for a month!” Bitty shouted. The men’s hockey team was opposite him, suited up in practice gear and looking suitably cowed. “To think, grown men resorting to fist fights at a Halloween party. No thank you!”

Chowder raised a hand.

“Yes?” Bitty snapped.

“Um, Cap, we all know that fighting is bad and that we should find peaceful negotiation methods first and how we were probably all mostly drunk and violence is never the answer when you can just hug it out and explain things rationally and probably with powerpoints or handouts or something-“

“What Chow is trying to say,” Nursey cut in, just as Chowder paused to take an enormous gulp of air. “Is that we don’t stand for assholes talking shit about our captain. And our friend.”

There was a chorus of “hear, hear’s” and some stick banging following that statement, and Bitty glared.

“And while I appreciate y’all doing what you think is right, I need y’all to understand that my honor does not need defending,” he said. “I have, and will, face far worse than dirty words at a party, and by no means do such situations justify an all out brawl in my living room.” Bitty sighed. “Y’all are good boys, but I learned a long time ago that punching problems in the face, as tempting a solution as it might be, is usually not the best one.” He looked at each of them in turn, eyes stern, but couldn’t deny the flood of gratitude he had for these young idiots he was looking after. “We have to be better than our bullies,” he finished. There were a few nods, some scattered stick bangs, and Bitty felt a strange pride in that moment. This captain thing was starting to grow on him, after all. “Alright, y’all. Let’s play some hockey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter every Wednesday (look everyone I actually posted on time this week). This week's chapter brought to you by "Truth No. 2" by the Dixie Chicks. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKgf5QQDNLE
> 
> Blowing kisses to all you lovely folks who left kudos and comments last week. (Please note: on the hierarchy of affectionate gestures, blowing kisses comes before cheek kisses but after air kisses). 
> 
> Have a soundtrack recommendation? Need more Dixie Chicks songs that perfectly sum up a Check Please character? Leave a comment or find me on tumblr as achoo-gesundheit.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, many glad tidings to all those celebrating Chanukah this week. I raise a jelly donut in your honor.
> 
> Second, an advanced warning for author attempting to write sentences in French, a language they do not speak. Many apologies.

_Samwell orphans’ Thanksgiving: not your mother’s cooking – cuz Bitty’s is probably better,_ Holster tweeted, adding a picture of Bitty in the kitchen, wrist deep in the ass of a raw turkey.

“Brah,” Shitty said, reading over his shoulder. “What’s with that casual reinforcement of gender roles? Have you forgotten all my lectures already?”

“Yeah, bro,” Ransom said from the sofa, legs kicked over the armrest. “Why’s it gotta be the mom cooking?" 

“Ditch the sexism, Holtzy,” Lardo said, emerging from the kitchen to hand Shitty a beer.

Holster raised an eyebrow. “He got you fetchin his beer, Lards? Who’s modeling traditional gender roles now?”

Shitty winced, and Ransom shook his head sadly as Lardo took two quick steps into Holster’s space and narrowed her eyes.

“You. Me. Pong. Now.” 

Holster grinned at her. “You’re on.”

Lardo led the march to the basement, Holster hot at her heels.

“Oh, I gotta see this,” Ransom said, kicking off the sofa and making for the stairs.

Shitty just shook his head and took a sip of beer, a look of fond affection on his face. “I call winner!” He shouted and ambled after them.

In the kitchen, Bitty was putting the final touches on the turkey before sliding it into the oven. He was expecting around ten people, which included the gaggle of alumni downstairs, Tango, who couldn’t afford to get home to Seattle, Farmer and her friend from the volleyball team who were facing similar difficulties, and Jack, who was due to arrive any minute. Bitty set the oven timer and washed his hands, checking his phone again for the hundredth time that day and rereading the text his mother had sent him that morning.

 _Happy Thanksgiving, baby!_ followed by a turkey emoji and a promise that she would call tomorrow.

Bitty wiped his hands on the kitchen towel hanging over his shoulder and sat down to snap green beans, but left his phone in grabbing distance, just in case. 

It was then that the front door creaked open, and Jack’s voice carried into the kitchen.

“Bitty? We’re here!" 

Green beans abandoned for the moment, Bitty raced to the hall, only to find Jack standing by the door with an exuberant looking Tater, who waved.

“We?” Bitty asked. 

Jack blushed and shrugged. “He was moping.” 

Bitty raised an eyebrow, and Tater grinned.

“It is kind of you to be having me!” he said, wrapping Bitty in a hug. “All of Falconers abandoned me,” he explained sadly. “Excepting for Zimmboni!” He turned to whack an enormous hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Such good captain.”

“That he is,” Bitty agreed, shooting a look at Jack, who mouthed a silent “sorry” over Tater’s shoulder. “Well, Tater, you’re absolutely welcome here. Lord knows we’ll have enough food!”

“Thanking you, Itty Bitty! Such good boyfriend,” Tater said, smiling at Jack, who chuckled.

“That he is.”

Something warm and fuzzy emerged in Bitty’s chest, and he desperately needed to kiss Jack right now. “Tater, honey, why don’t you head downstairs with the rest of the boys? I’m sure they’ll all be delighted to see you.”

“Yes, good! I will be mingling!” Tater said, and Bitty pointed him towards the basement stairs. He almost followed him down there, just to see Ransom’s reaction when he appeared, but there was still the little matter of his smirking boyfriend in the doorway.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were bringing Tater,” Bitty said in a tone he hoped was believably serious.

Jack took a step toward him. “It all just happened so fast,” he said, as Bitty took a step to meet him.

“So fast you couldn’t send a text?” Bitty let his hands settle on Jack’s hips as Jack slung his arms around his shoulders.

“Am I in trouble?” Jack asked into Bitty’s ear, and Bitty shivered, smiling.

“Do you wanna be?” Bitty whispered back.

Jack nipped at his earlobe. “What’s my punishment gonna be?”

Bitty let out a little gasp as Jack’s lips moved from his ear to his neck to his cheek, skirting over his lips entirely. Just as Bitty was about to provide a list of ideas, there was a quiet cough behind them, and he looked up to see Farmer and her friend standing in the open door.

“I’m not sure I wanna know,” Farmer said. Next to her, her friend was boggling at Bitty and Jack, the latter burying his face in Bitty’s shoulder, chest shaking with giggles.

Bitty sighed, and pushed Jack away. “Great, now you’ve set him off.”

Jack’s giggles increased in volume as Farmer reached over to close her friend’s jaw with an audible snap.

Bitty flapped a hand. “Come on in, ladies,” he said, and Farmer shoved her friend into the hall. “Just ignore him,” Bitty said, gesturing to where Jack was in fits against one wall. “Once he starts he’s of absolutely no use at all.” He stuck out a hand to the wide-eyed girl with Farmer. “I’m Eric, but you can call me Bitty. That’s Jack,” he said, jerking a thumb to his left. 

“You can call him Jack,” Farmer supplied, and the girl nodded.

“I’m Ridhi,” she said, finally looking away from Jack to shake Bitty’s hand. “Thanks for letting me come over.”

“Of course!” Bitty said, leading them into the kitchen. “The more the merrier.”

“Do you need any help?” Farmer asked as she surveyed the chaos that was the Haus kitchen.

Bitty looked around as if seeing the mess for the first time, and shrugged. “Y’all are welcome to stay and chop, but from what I understand there’s also a fairly high stakes beer pong game happening down in the basement, if you’re interested.”

Farmer took one look at Ridhi, who was eyeing the basement door with interest, and Jack, who was lurking awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, and sighed. “We’ll go down to the basement then, I guess.”

Ridhi’s face lit up in excitement, and Bitty bit back a laugh. 

“Have fun! I’ll call y’all when it’s time to eat.”

“Thanks, Bits,” Farmer said, and ushered Ridhi back out into the hallway.

The basement door had barely closed behind them before Jack was crowding Bitty in the kitchen. “Where were we?” he asked, in a tone that Bitty absolutely did not have time for.

“Oh no, mister,” he said, pecking Jack once on the lips and then steering him towards the table. “No more fun for you until you help me finish these green beans.”

Jack pouted, but picked up a green bean regardless. “This wasn’t exactly the punishment I had in mind,” he mumbled as he threw a green bean toward the colander Bitty had set out.

Bitty smirked, running one hand along Jack’s shoulders to slip, hot, beneath the collar of his shirt. “Later,” he murmured, and Jack shuddered, groaned, and let his head thunk down onto the table.

“I hate you,” Jack said into the green beans. 

Bitty blew him a kiss and valiantly began to tackle the ever-growing pile of dishes in the sink.

Four hours later, Bitty was pulling the turkey out of the oven and the gang had emerged from the basement, Lardo demanding a victory cocktail be made for her. As she and Shitty began mixing drinks, Jack press-ganged Tater into helping him rearrange the Haus furniture to accommodate the extra tables Ransom and Holster had stolen from Faber. In the ensuing argument about which side of the plate the water glass went on, Tango arrived, clutching a bottle of Yoo-hoo and three snack sized bags of cool ranch Doritos.

“My mom told me I wasn’t allowed to go to a party empty-handed,” he explained, handing them off to Holster. “But the campus convenience mart was closed, and they haven’t restocked the vending machines since Monday.”

Jack was smothering giggles into his sleeve and Bitty reached over to whack him on the head.

“That’s very kind of you, Tango, thank you.” He turned to Holster, about to tell him he could put the Doritos in the pantry, only to find that Holster was already on his second bag, and Ransom was on his last sip of Yoo-hoo. “Hey!” Bitty yelled, snatching the chips away. “I have been cooking you boys dinner all day! You will not ruin it with Doritos!” He shook the bags in Holster’s face before handing them to Lardo, who placed them in the cupboard before very pointedly standing guard in front of it.

Ransom wiped at his mouth and tried to subtly hide the bottle behind his hulking frame.

Bitty rolled his eyes. “The water glass goes on the right,” he told them, and turned around to finish the salad.

By some small miracle, ten minutes later found them all seated in mismatched chairs around the various tables, the three inch height difference between the two surfaces haphazardly covered with a tablecloth that Bitty suspected was actually a bed sheet. But he had a cocktail in hand and a beautiful meal before him. Ridhi had sat herself next to Tango, who was beginning to hyperventilate, Ransom and Lardo were taking turns squeezing Tater’s biceps, Shitty and Holster were grilling Farmer about her plans for the holidays, and Jack’s hand was rubbing unnerving patterns into Bitty’s knee under the table. Bitty had heard a lot about the idea of found family over the course of his life, but for the first time, he was beginning to understand what it meant. Jack’s fingers were warm where they rested over Bitty’s slacks, and it felt like home.

*

True to her word, his mother did call him the next day.

Bitty rolled over in bed, hand slapping out wildly for his phone as Beyoncé’s voice roared out from his tinny speakers. 

“ _Who run the world? Girls. Who run the world? Girls. Who run the world-“_

 _“_ Mama?” Bitty grumbled, swiping blindly at the screen to answer the call. 

“Good morning!” Suzanne said cheerfully.

Bitty rolled over to stare blearily at the digital clock on his nightstand, surprised to see the time 11:28 AM blinking on the display. Phone still held to his ear, he turned back over to frown at the head-shaped dent in Jack’s pillow.

“Dicky?”

“Yeah, Mama, I’m here,” Bitty replied. He kicked the covers off and sat up, room spinning slightly, which he imagined was the combination of sitting up too quickly and the four Lardo cocktails he’d had last night. He propped an elbow on his knee, let his head sink into his palm, and waited for the floor to stop moving. “How are you?”

“Did I wake you up?” Suzanne asked, surprised.

“Yeah, sorry. I haven’t been able to sleep in much lately,” Bitty replied, squinting down at his feet. He was only wearing one sock. “Must have just needed the sleep.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, baby! I should have called you later.”

“No, no, I needed to get up.” Bitty braced a hand on the bed and pushed himself to standing. To his credit, he only wobbled for a second. “How was your Thanksgiving?”

Suzanne sighed. “Quiet,” she admitted. “Your daddy’s been even more stoic than usual, and what with you not here…” She trailed off.

“I’m sorry,” Bitty said.

“You have got absolutely nothing to be sorry for, baby,” Suzanne said firmly. “Nothing at all, you hear me?”

Bitty’s head hurt. He wanted to find Jack. More than that he wanted to find his other sock. “Thanks, mama.”

“Tell me about your Thanksgiving,” she said after a moment.

“It was nice,” Bitty said. “We had fun.”

“Who’s we?”

“Uh, me, Jack, Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, Holster.” Bitty held his foot up next to the sock he was holding and frowned. “Farmer, Farmer’s friend, Tango, oh, and Tater.”

“Tater?” Suzanne asked.

“A teammate of Jack’s. Alexei Mashkov?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Bitty held the phone away from his ear to make sure he was still connected.

“Mama?” he asked. 

“You had Thanksgiving dinner with a professional hockey player?” Suzanne whispered.

Bitty rubbed at his forehead. “Mama, I regularly have dinner with a professional hockey player.”

“Jack doesn’t count,” she said dismissively.

“Why not?” Bitty snorted.

“Because he’s your boyfriend,” she explained easily.

Bitty froze. She’d never said it before, but she said it like it was nothing. Before Bitty had processed it fully, Suzanne was carrying on.

“It’s not the same at all! Oh heavens, what was he like? Oh! How much did he eat? I can’t believe you cooked for a real NHL player!” She gasped. “Did you use my recipes?”

“Of course I used your recipes!” Bitty said, affronted. “And it’s not like I hadn’t met him already, anyway.”

“You- what?”

Bitty crinkled his nose in confusion. “I’ve been dating Jack for over a year, Mama. I’ve already met all the Falconers.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone, and Bitty could feel the mood palpably shifting.

“I hadn’t thought-” Suzanne started. “You’re right,” she said quietly, then, “It’s been a long time since we really talked, Dicky.”

And Bitty was nothing if not aware of that. He had gone from talking to his mother nearly every day to closer to once a week, and then once he started dating Jack, talking to her hardly at all for fear of giving the game away. He had thought once he came out, that would change. Silly, the way he’d let himself hope. Bitty sat down heavily in his desk chair, his one socked foot sweeping sadly over the hardwood.

“Maybe we can catch up at Christmas,” Bitty offered.

Suzanne didn’t reply, and Bitty pressed on.

“I’ve been setting aside some of my paychecks every month,” Bitty said. “I should have enough to swing a plane ticket, as long as there’s some left. And Jack said he’d make up the difference anyway, but I try not to let him pay for things, because then he just insists on paying for everything and I don’t want people to think he’s my sugar daddy or something.” He was rambling, but his mother hadn’t said anything and he was starting to panic. “I don’t have to stay very long, maybe just a couple of days? And I can probably stay with someone from camp if you don’t want me in the house and-“

“Dicky.” Suzanne’s voice cracked.

Bitty sucked in a shaky breath. “I can’t come home, can I?" 

“I’m so sorry, baby." 

“No, no, it’s fine, I’ll just- I can go home with Jack, his parents already invited me, and I’ve been meaning to spend more time with them anyway, and- yeah. Yeah. That’ll be good. It’s fine,” Bitty said, and he felt like the room was spinning again. He placed a hand on the side of his head as if to hold it still. “Thanks, Mama. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Dicky-“ Suzanne started, but Bitty couldn’t stand to listen to the way her words shook, voice still thin and wrong through his phone.

“I love you,” Bitty said over her.

“I love you too, baby,” Suzanne said, earnest and heartbreaking, and Bitty hung up.

He just sat there for a moment, head still pounding, before deciding he needed a glass of water, a lot of aspirin, and a new pair of socks. He stood up slowly, his head protesting even that much motion, and fished a random pair of socks out of his dresser drawer. He shuffled his way to the bathroom, downing two glasses of water and probably more Advil than was advisable, and went downstairs to find Jack. What he found when he entered the kitchen nearly brought him to tears. It was pristine. Last night’s tables had been folded and put away and chairs returned to their rooms. The floor was swept, the counters were clean, and there was a pile of sparkling dishes drying on a towel next to the sink. Jack was sitting at the kitchen table reading a book on the American Revolution and eating mashed potatoes straight out of a plastic leftover container. He looked up when Bitty walked in, and smiled.

“Good morning,” he said, and pointed to the counter. “I made coffee.”

Bitty ignored the coffee and made a beeline for Jack, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and burying his face in his neck. Jack dropped the book he was holding and turned so that he could pull Bitty onto his lap. Bitty tried to burrow further into the space under Jack’s jaw, and Jack just rubbed one hand slow and warm down Bitty’s back. 

“Hey,” Jack said, tilting his head to try to see Bitty’s face. “What’s going on?”

“I just talked to my mama.” He clenched his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry. “Is it still okay if I come home with you for Christmas?” Bitty whispered against Jack’s skin.

Jack’s hand stilled on Bitty’s back, and he whined in protest. The stroking started again immediately, and Jack placed a soft kiss into Bitty’s hair. “Of course,” he murmured.

He didn’t say anything else, and Bitty was grateful. There would undoubtedly be questions later, lengthy conversations about family and hope, and Bitty was dreading it. Right now though, he was content to sit in his spotless kitchen, rest his thrumming head on Jack’s shoulder, and let the warmth of a solid, loving body seep beneath his skin.

“I love you,” Bitty said.

Jack kissed his hair again, and Bitty thought he could feel his headache beginning to fade. Jack’s hand came up to rest on his neck, squeezing Bitty closer. “I love you, too.”

*

Christmas with the Zimmermann’s was a quiet affair. It was joyful and intimate and nothing at all like Christmas with the Bittle’s. There were no hordes of cousins to babysit or endless cooking to be done for hungry aunts and uncles. It was peaceful and new, and Bitty was at once relieved and grateful for the unfamiliar setting. After dealing with a team of rowdy hockey players on a daily basis, as well as several weeks of holiday horrors at the bakery, the stillness was a blessing. Even after just a few hours in Jack’s house, Bitty felt a serene sense of comfort settle into his bones. This was a home where they did not have to hide, and it was like an enormous weight had been lifted off Bitty’s shoulders.

Montreal Jack, Bitty had discovered, was warm and openly affectionate. He smiled more and laughed easily, falling into French without effort, chirping Bitty in lilting vowels and dropped consonants. Bob would occasionally join in, sharing secret smiles with his son, but Bitty didn’t protest. He was too caught up with the way Jack’s chair was mere inches from his own, Jack’s shoulder solid where he leaned into Bitty.

Alicia took pity on him though, rolling her eyes and smacking Bob on the back of his head. “English, boys,” she said, “For the sake of us poor Americans.” She winked at Bitty, and he blushed.

“I told you to pay more attention in French class,” Jack chirped, lighthearted. He leaned a little further into Bitty, pushing him slightly to the left, and Bitty glared at him. Jack was beaming, cup of coffee nestled between his hands, wearing flannel pajama pants and a knit sweater, and looking completely at home in his own skin. Something flipped upside down near Bitty’s stomach. This, he knew, was what home was meant to feel like. The image of broken lamps and misplaced brooms flickered into his mind, and he forcefully blinked it away, refusing to engage with the realization that his own home had not felt like that in years. He wasn’t in Georgia.

He turned to wrinkle his nose at Jack. “If I had known my future would be filled with incessant Canadian chirping, I might’ve studied harder,” he said coolly.

Bob snorted, but Jack just grinned, leaning down to press a kiss against Bitty’s cheek. _“Tu es trop mignon.”_

Bitty’s cheeks were red as he squinted up at Jack. “Did you just call me stupid?”

Jack laughed and shook his head, and across the table Bob was snorting into his coffee.

Alicia glared fondly at the pair of them. “If you boys are going out to skate, you best do it now,” she said. “Réveillon waits for no man.”

And so with a borrowed sweater and two pairs of socks on Bitty followed Jack and Bob out to their backyard rink, shivering in his skates. There was a fresh blanket of snow on the ground, and Bitty watched as Bob swept it off the ice. Jack was skating in the clear trail behind him, a few steps too close just to see if he could make him trip, and Bob reached back to swat him with the broom. Jack swerved and skated around him, grabbing the broom out of his hands and laughing, and Bitty didn’t think he’d ever loved Jack as much as he did right now, cheeks rosy and eyes bright, skating carefree amidst the winter white of his own backyard.

Jack skid to halt at the edge of the rink where Bitty was standing and held out a hand. Bitty fit his gloved fingers into Jack’s and let himself be pulled across the ice, gliding gently towards the center. And Bitty had been skating with Jack almost every day for years, but it had never felt like this. Jack leaned down to kiss him, steady and even and warm, and _Oh_ , Bitty thought, _there it is. Home_.

And then Jack lurched forward suddenly, pushing Bitty backwards on the ice, before whipping around. From this angle, Bitty could see the snow print on his hat where he’d been hit. Behind them, Bob cackled and lobbed another snowball at Jack. It glanced off his shoulder, and Jack pointedly reached up to brush the remaining snow off. Then, he dropped Bitty’s hand, grabbed a handful of snow, and charged full speed towards the edge of the ice, snowball hitting Bob square in the face as he whizzed by. An all out battle had begun. Bitty took to hiding behind Jack, handing him snowballs and narrowly avoiding knocking them both over. It wasn’t until Bob started stuffing snow down the back of Jack’s coat that a truce was called. They all tromped back towards the house, Jack wet and grumpy, Bitty shivering once again, and Bob gleeful. They discarded skates and gloves and soggy coats in the front hall, and Jack headed upstairs to put on dry clothes, Bitty puttering after him.

“I think your parents like me,” Bitty said, pulling Jack’s sweater over his head.

Jack snorted. “I think my father might already be picking out wedding venues.”

Bitty smiled into his shoulder.

“Hey,” Jack said, dropping a kiss on Bitty’s hair. “I know the circumstances are terrible but… I’m glad you came.”

Bitty was glad he came, too. He tried valiantly not to feel guilty about that. “Me too, sweetheart.” They rocked in silence for a minute, still too many wet layers between them, before Bitty looked up at Jack seriously, pointing a finger in his face. “But you can tell your dad I will absolutely not be getting married in a hockey rink.”

“What about a hockey museum?” Jack chirped.

Bitty pushed him away, feigning disgust. “How did this become my life?” He yanked off his sweaty socks and threw them at Jack. “Why is everyone in my life obsessed with hockey? It’s like a curse.” Jack was chuckling behind him, and Bitty chucked his wet jeans at his face.

Jack caught them one handed. “You’re the captain of a hockey team,” he pointed out calmly, and Bitty glared.

“It’s not even that great a sport, you know." 

“Careful there,” Jack said, shrugging on a clean shirt. “If my dad hears that kind of blaspheming, you might be excommunicated.”

“And what a blessing that would be,” Bitty replied sardonically.

“Boys!” Alicia shouted from downstairs. “If anyone wants to eat before midnight, my assistants better get their butts down here!” 

“We’ll have to continue this riveting debate later,” Jack said archly, brushing by Bitty on his way towards the door, but Bitty just shrugged.

“I’ve said all I need to say.”

It wasn’t long before the kitchen was buzzing with activity, Bitty learning how to make his first tourtiere, scribbling down frantic notes as Alicia mixed pastry dough with the ease of years of practice. At the stove, Bob was poking at a meat filling, and the scent of cinnamon and cloves filled the kitchen. Jack, despite his not infrequent cooking lessons at the Haus, had apparently yet to gain the trust of his parents in the kitchen, and had been relegated to peeling potatoes.

“I’m really not a bad cook, you know,” Jack said with what Bitty would gleefully classify as a pout.

Alicia came around to pat him on the head with a flour-covered hand. “That’s nice, dear.”

Bitty snickered as Jack tried to shake the flour out of his hair.

“You just peel potatoes so beautifully,” Bob said, twirling his wooden spoon.

“That’s because I have to peel the potatoes every year.”

“See!” Bob said, cheery. “It’s a tradition.” He pointed his spoon at Jack. “We do not mess with tradition.”

Jack rolled his eyes, and sullenly grabbed another potato. “Sometimes change is good,” Jack mumbled. 

Bitty felt that settle on him, hard and heavy like a lead blanket.

Alicia looked up from rolling out pie crust. “You paying attention?” She asked, not unkindly, and Bitty nodded. He willed away the dreadful and familiar feeling clenching in his gut, the one made worse by his mother’s sparse texts and Jack’s parents’ unflinching compassion. He wondered what his parents were doing.

“Bob? You got that pie filing ready yet?”

“Oui, ma chérie, just waiting on your crust.”

“The crust is done, Bob. It’s been done.”

“Well, I’m done, too.”

“Jack, are you done?”

“I’m done with this conversation,” Jack muttered. 

“Jack!” Bob said, playful. “Are you sassing your mother?”

“Well, I’ve always lived by my father’s example.”

Bob affected an appalled face, bringing a hand up to clutch at his chest. “My own son!”

“Why am I always in trouble?” Jack pointed the potato peeler at Bitty. “He said he didn’t like hockey earlier. Bug him.”

“I did not!” Bitty replied quickly. “Lies, Mr. Zimmermann, all lies.”

Bob stared at him for a moment, considering, and shook his head. “Of course. How could anybody not like hockey?”

Jack raised his eyebrows at Bitty as if to say, _See?_ and Bitty hid a smile behind his notebook.

Dinner was served with gusto, champagne uncorked and faces getting increasingly redder with every glass. The tourtiere was delicious – Bitty’s mother would love it. He promised himself he’d teach her the recipe soon. In person. One way or another. Dessert was just as luxurious, Alicia serving slices of bûche de Nöel on fine, gold-rimmed dishes. As Bitty passed him the plate, Jack leaned over to whisper, “their wedding china,” in his ear, and Bitty was glad to blame the blush on his champagne.

By the time they had all retired to the living room, the world had taken on a warm and fuzzy glow, and Bitty was tipsy enough that the self-conscious anxiety he’d been nursing about his gifts (homemade holiday jam) had all but melted away. Bob and Alicia were duly delighted with their jars, thanking Bitty profusely for his thoughtfulness. For Jack he’d prepared an assortment of protein rich recipes, handwritten on fancy cards and sorted in a handmade painted recipe box courtesy of Lardo. Bitty may have asked her to include the words “Eat More Protein” on the top. If Lardo had taken that as an invitation to bedazzle, well, Bitty was certainly in no position to stop her.

Jack purposefully did not laugh when he opened it, but he shot Bitty a look that spoke wonders. For his parents, Jack had one of his photographs from Samwell blown up and framed, a black and white of the campus in the snow, icicles hanging off trees, glinting sunlight.

“It’s beautiful, honey, thank you,” Alicia said, and Bob nodded his agreement.

They had gotten Jack a new blender. His old one, they argued when Jack protested, made worrying dinosaur noises whenever he turned it on, and occasionally quit due to overheating.

“I’ve had that blender since freshman year,” Jack said sadly.

Bob placed a hand on his shoulder, clearly restraining a laugh, and said, gently, “It’s time, son.”

Alicia was giggling furiously into her sleeve, and Bitty was struck suddenly with how much Jack was like her. He was constantly being compared to his father, but watching Jack here, at home, it was easy to see how much of him was his mother. Bitty had a brief moment to speculate how much of his parents people saw in him, when Alicia reached over to hand him an envelope.

“We weren’t entirely sure how to wrap it,” she admitted.

With some trepidation and a wary look at Jack, who shrugged, Bitty opened the envelope. It was just a piece of paper, clearly printed out from an e-mail because whoever had done the printing had forgotten (or didn’t know how) to take the e-mail header formatting off. It was a certificate of membership to America’s Test Kitchen online cooking school – a year of classes you could take on your own time, over two hundred of them.

“You don’t have to take all of them,” Alicia said. “We know you’re already quite advanced, but there are some very interesting courses on cuisines and dishes you might not be familiar with.”

“And then you can come cook them for us,” Bob added.

“This is-“ Bitty blinked dumbly down at the envelope. He knew what a membership cost. He’d looked it up first thing when he moved to Samwell. _This is too much_ , is what he wanted to say. He was sitting in a house that more than likely cost four times what his childhood home cost his parents, drinking fancy champagne and wearing a cashmere sweater that was softer than anything in his closet at school, but Alicia and Bob were also there, smiling at him, and Jack’s arm was still casually smushed against his, and so he swallowed the words before they left his mouth. “This is wonderful,” he said, with as much conviction as he could muster. “Truly. Thank y’all so much.” He looked up at Alicia, her smile a spitting image of Jack’s. “For everything.”

Alicia nodded, and Bob waved a hand at him, dismissive. “It was nothing,” he said.

And Bitty imagined they believed that to be true. To these lovely, generous people, Christmas dinner with their son’s boyfriend and a two hundred dollar gift felt like nothing. To Bitty, it felt like everything.

*

In no time at all, Christmas had come and gone, presents opened and wrapping paper collected, wonderful meals finished and bags packed, waiting by the door. Jack was heading back to Providence to gear up for a week of away games, and Bitty was bound for Toronto to spend New Year’s with Scot. They said goodbye at the front door, and if it lasted a little longer than strictly necessary, no one noticed.

“It was lovely to have you, Bitty,” Alcia said, pulling him in for a quick hug. “You’re welcome here any time.”

Bitty returned the hug and the thanks, and watched as she climbed into the driver’s seat to take Jack to the airport. He tried to remember the way he’d felt this time last year, when things with Jack still felt so new, and the time they’d spend together seemed to stretch on in an infinity in front of him. It’d only be a few weeks before he saw Jack again, and he knew there was a time when he’d been able to convince himself that was no time at all. But he also knew that this time last year he was sitting down to Christmas dinner with his parents in Madison. His mother would have been smiling at him across the table, Coach would have been saying grace, and the thermometer hanging in the kitchen window would have read a balmy fifty-three degrees Fahrenheit.

He was snapped back to the present when Bob laid a careful hand on his shoulder, ushering him towards the car. Bitty slid into the passenger seat, let Bob shut the door behind him, and thought about how much could change in a year. The digital thermometer on the dashboard read sixteen degrees, and Bitty shivered, burrowing further into the plush leather of Bob’s BMW.

He thought of his mother’s beat up minivan, the stain on the passenger seat where he’d spilled grape soda as a kid, and couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden in it.

As Bob pulled smoothly out of the driveway, car quiet and still beneath them, Bitty imagined the groan and rumble of his mother’s Honda and felt very, very far from home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack Zimmermann is 100% a giggler. Fight me. 
> 
> New chapter every Wednesday. Today's chapter brought to you by "I'll Be Home for Christmas" by Kelly Clarkson, because I like breaking my own heart, apparently. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jWjuwS4vf70
> 
> A pile of second night Chanukah latkes to everyone who left comments last week. However your dreidels land, you're all winners in my book.
> 
> Want to giggle about Jack Zimmermann with me? Leave a comment or find me on tumblr as achoo-gesundheit.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam and Scot were waiting for him at the station when Bitty’s bus pulled in. Bitty had barely made it onto the sidewalk before Scot had engulfed him in a hug, and Bitty sunk into it. Six hours alone on a bus with his thoughts had not done him any good, and it was a relief to be in the company of friends again. His time with the Zimmermann’s had been exceptional and appreciated, but there was something about spending the holidays with your boyfriend’s family that elevated expectations, and whether Bob and Alicia truly expected anything from Bitty or not, he was glad for a chance to relax into the organized and unworried dysfunction of Scot’s world.

“I missed you,” Scot whined, drawing out the “you” to comical lengths.

Bitty laughed. “I missed you, too.” He waved awkwardly, arms still pinned under Scot’s, at Sam, who was holding up a Samwell duffel with a “is this yours?” look on his face. Bitty flashed him a thumbs up.

“Guess what?” Scot asked, finally releasing Bitty to bounce excitedly in front of him.

“What?” Bitty said, barely getting it out before Scot interrupted.

“We got a dog!” 

Bitty’s eyebrows flew up, and he glanced over at Sam.

“Correction,” he said dryly. “Eric got a dog.”

“Aw, you love her though,” Scot said, looping an arm through Bitty’s as they meandered out of the station. “How could you not?”

“Because she drools,” Sam replied. “On everything.” 

“She’s precious,” Scot said delightedly. “You’ll see.” 

And Bitty did see, because the minute they opened the door to the house an enormous creature came barreling into the hallway, slipping on the hardwood and crashing into an end table, before scuttling haphazardly to her feet to jump on Bitty in greeting. Her paws reached up to his shoulders.

“Lola! No!” Scot heaved the dog down by the collar, and she took to sniffing Bitty’s shoes, licking at his soles with curiosity.

Bitty didn’t move.

“She’s a total sweetheart, I promise,” Scot said. And Bitty was sure it was true but Lola’s head came up to his hips. “Aren’t you, Lola?” Scot cooed, reaching down to pet her, and her tail began wagging in earnest, whacking Bitty in the knees with each move.

So much for relaxing. 

But as Bitty settled in Lola settled down, and she was, with the exception of her predilection to eat just about everything in sight, a sweetheart. Bitty learned to keep his shoes upstairs, and Lola learned that if she stared sadly at Bitty long enough, he would let her climb into his lap on the sofa.

Sam had put slip-covers on all the upholstered furniture. He complained, loudly, and often, about the drool, and the shedding, and the eating of remote controls, but Bitty came down one morning to find him feeding Lola bacon scraps under the table, Eric smirking fondly at the pair of them, and thought that love was about compromise, after all.

The time between Christmas and New Year’s rolled by in slow days in front of the television, drinking coffee and eating dinner in the pajamas they’d never changed out of. Bitty caught Scot up on his time with the Zimmermann’s, his brief, constant communication with his mother, and the nagging worry at the pit of his stomach that nothing would ever feel right again. Scot made careful promises and calm reassurances, gifted Bitty with a never-ending string of hugs, and poured a shot of whiskey into their coffee.

One night, after Eric and Sam had gone to bed, Bitty and Scot were curled up on the sofa watching Iron Chef reruns, Lola stretched out between them. She was snoring loud enough to be heard over the television, and Bitty smiled as he scratched absentmindedly behind her ears.

“What made Eric get a dog?” Bitty wondered.

Across the couch, Scot pulled his blanket around himself a little more snugly. “I told him I was Trans,” he said, without preamble. 

“You’re-“ Bitty stumbled. He had not been prepared for this particular turn in the conversation. He struggled valiantly to remember the lectures Shitty had given them Freshman year about gender, but the only thing springing to mind were the reruns of RuPaul’s drag race he and Lardo had binged on her last semester. But Scot was sinking steadily back into the couch cushions, and Bitty forced himself to say something. “That’s- that’s great, honey!” 

This at least earned him a snort. 

“So you’re-“ the words sounded awkward before they even left Bitty’s mouth. “You want to be a girl?”

Scot made a noncommittal sort of sound from beneath his blanket. “It’s more like- I just don’t want to be a boy all the time. Or at all.”

Bitty’s mind suddenly raced back to something Scot had said to him months ago, taken in through the filter of too much beer and fistfight adrenaline. “So, what you said at Halloween…?”

It wasn’t really a question, but Scot nodded anyway. “Yeah.”

 _You look stunning_ , Bitty had told him, and Scot, all lipstick and eyeshadow and high heels, had said, _I feel stunning_. They were sitting on the floor of an empty Haus, world still a little fuzzy at the edges, but Bitty could see Scot’s smile in his head. _I wish I could dress like this all the time._

“I’m sorry,” Bitty said softly, and Scot peered at him from beneath his blanket.

“For what?”

But Bitty shook his head. “How long has this-“ He didn’t quite know how to say it. “Was it just Halloween? Or, you know, before that?”

Scot shrugged, tense. “Before that.”

Scenes of the last six months were replaying themselves in Bitty’s brain, filtered and clarified through the lens of new information. He felt a little sick.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t notice. I didn’t even ask. I just-“

“You had a lot going on,” Scot interrupted, not excusing, but Bitty thought there was understanding there.

“Yes, I did. I do. But you’re my friend,” Bitty said firmly. “And I was terrible to you.” 

Scot sat up a little straighter, scooting closer to Bitty on the sofa. “Bitty-“

“I was. I yelled at you. I ignored you. I didn’t-“ He forced himself to meet Scot’s eyes. “I didn’t listen. I’m so sorry." 

Scot smiled, small but true, and tilted his head forward in a nod. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Bitty said sincerely.

There were a few beats of silence, Lola’s snores mixing loudly with the long forgotten television, before Bitty turned back to Scot. “Oh goodness, I’m supposed to ask about pronouns right?”

Scot laughed brightly, and the tension that had settled over the room shattered.

“I’m probably going to be bad at this,” Bitty admitted.

“Don’t worry, you’re definitely not going to be as bad as Eric.”

“Oh yeah!” Bitty said, remembering how they’d gotten here in the first place. “He got a dog?”

Scot snorted. “Sam says that when Eric feels like he’s lost control of a situation, he finds something he can control again.” He jerked his head down at Lola. “He never had much luck training me, so he got something he could.”

Bitty goggled at him. “That’s… I mean that’s just foolishness.”

“Yeah,” Scot agreed happily, giving Lola a pat. “I think that’s also Sam projecting a little bit. They both took it kinda rough." 

“What’s Eric say?” Bitty asked.

Scot beamed. “That Sam’s full of shit. And that he wanted me to have a quote ‘female presence’ in my life.”

Bitty blinked stupidly at Scot for a minute, and then down at Lola, who was steadily drooling a small pond onto Bitty’s pajama pants. “So today’s lesson: men are morons.”

Lola awoke with a start as Scot burst into laughter, rolling down onto the sofa so his head was butting awkwardly into Bitty’s hip, chest shaking. Lola, ready to play, climbed on top of him to lick eagerly at his face, which only made Scot laugh harder, which got Bitty laughing, and the serious conversation of the last few minutes dissolved into mirth.

They finally got themselves to bed nearly an hour later. Just as Bitty was about to fall asleep, Scot’s head appeared over the side of the bed. 

“They and them, by the way,” Scot said quietly.

The air mattress squeaked under Bitty as he rolled over to look up at Scot.

“My pronouns,” Scot explained. “Thanks for asking.”

Bitty smiled. “Of course.”

“G’night, Bitty.”

“Sweet dreams, sugar.”

*

New Year’s Eve was spent in what Bitty now understood was typical LaTour fashion – eating a staggering array of appetizers and clearing away whole cases of wine. There seemed to be fewer guests this year than Bitty remembered, but they were all jovial and friendly and Bitty didn’t inquire as to the size change. It was still a glamorous party, full of sparkling dresses and champagne flutes, and at least three people complimented Scot on their impeccably applied makeup and exquisite nails. Lola had a ball ruffling skirts, licking shoes, and looking cute enough that her constant begging usually yielded affectionate pats and “dropped” hors d’oeuvres. Bitty found himself enjoying the company. It had been wonderful to spend some quality time with Jack and his parents, but crowds often brought the gift of invisibility, and Bitty was content for tonight to hover in the shadow of Scot’s spotlight.

New Year’s Day, on the other hand, was spent in pajamas. The four of them were scattered around the living room eating leftover stuffed mushrooms straight out of their Tupperware containers, watching Star Wars movies one after the other. Halfway through The Return of the Jedi, Scot was asleep against Sam’s shoulder, Sam’s own eyes heavy and drooping. Eric and Bitty finished the movie in quiet companionship. Scenes of dancing Ewoks faded as the credits began to roll, and Eric reached over to where the remote was resting on the coffee table, Lola stirring beside him, and pressed mute. Then he sighed and sank back into the couch.

“He never could make it through all three.” Eric nodded over at Sam. He was snoring softly next to Scot now, head tipped back onto the cushions. “Lightweight,” he said fondly.

Bitty smiled. “My mama never cared for them either,” he said quietly, unthinking. “Coach- that was always his thing,” Bitty fumbled.

It was too dark to really make out Eric’s face, but he could feel his gaze, heavy and regarding from across the room.

“Maybe it’s a jock thing,” Eric said lightly, and Bitty snorted.

“I’ve got a hunk of a hockey playing boyfriend who’d disprove that theory.”

Eric chuckled. “Jack not a Star Wars man?”

Bitty shook his head. “That boy wouldn’t know pop culture unless it hit him over the head with a hockey stick.”

“He sounds like a winner.” 

“Oh, naturally.”

Their laughter filled the quiet room for a second, before petering out as Lola snuffed her complaint.

“Thank you,” Eric said, laying a hand on Lola’s side. 

Bitty’s forehead crinkled. “For what?”

Eric’s hand was stroking almost absentmindedly. He didn’t look at Bitty. “For being a friend to Scot.”

“I’ve been a pretty lousy friend, lately,” Bitty said.

“But you’re here, now,” Eric replied. “When it counts.”

Bitty glanced over at Scot, just a shadow from this distance, but soundly and peacefully asleep in the way you could only be at home, with people you loved.

“So are you,” Bitty whispered.

Eric made a choked off sort of noise that might have been a laugh. “He’s- ah, jeez. They’re my kid. This is my life. Life’s supposed to be complicated, right? It takes work. There are things I’m not good at yet. Just means I gotta practice more. Maybe fight a little. Fight myself sometimes. But this, these idiots right here-“ a shadowy hand gestured to Sam and Scot, curled together at the end of the couch, “are worth fighting for.”

Bitty rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah,” he said wetly.

Eric finally looked up at him. The credits of the movie had stopped rolling, and the blank blue screen of the TV made Eric’s eyes shine in the dark. “And so are you.” 

Fat tears rolled down Bitty’s cheeks, and he stared helplessly at the television. He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t even sure there were words to describe the way his heart broke then, to hear so easily from Eric what his own father couldn’t seem to say. And yet so many people fought for him every day, he’d seen it. Funny, how impossible the truth can feel sometimes.

A hand, solid and warm, landed softly on Bitty’s head. “You’ve got an army behind you, kid. Don’t forget it.”

Eric seemed to be waiting for something, and Bitty nodded weakly.

Gentle fingers gave his hair a final ruffle. “You’re gonna be okay,” Eric told him.

Bitty watched as he picked his way carefully across the room, dropping a kiss onto Sam’s forehead and nudging him awake. Then Sam reached over to run a hand through Scot’s curls, murmuring something about going upstairs, and together they lurched off the sofa. Scot padded sleepily after Sam, waving a halfhearted goodnight at Bitty on their way. Eric turned off the TV with a click. He beckoned Bitty towards the stairs, and they left Lola snoring peacefully on the sofa, flicking lights off as they went. He hovered on the landing for just a moment, one hand on the bedroom door, to turn to Bitty.

“I wish there was something I could do,” he said.

“Y’all’ve done more than enough already.”

Eric snorted. “I blew up an air mattress.” 

Bitty shook his head. “You’ve always welcomed me here. Before you even knew me, really. And you helped Jack. You helped both of us!”

“That stuff’s easy,” Eric said. 

“Not for everybody.”

Eric sighed. “Like I said, I wish there was something I could do.”

Bitty fiddled with his sleeves, pulling them down over his fingers. “I’m not sure there’s anything to be done.” He hunched his shoulders in a shrug. “If there is, I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Yeah.” Eric ran a tired hand down his face, rubbing at his jaw for moment before letting it fall. “We’re here, though. Sam and me. If there’s ever anything you need.”

Bitty wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the floor, hardwood shiny and slick beneath his socks. “Thank you,” he said quickly, and winced, aware that the etiquette ingrained in him was his parents’ handiwork, applied strictly and lovingly since he was old enough to speak. He was struck again with imagining what Eric would see in him if he knew Bitty’s parents. Bitty felt a sudden urge to defend them, to let Eric know that they weren’t terrible people, that he’d been happy with them, once. He could remember being happy. It would have been easier if he couldn’t.

“Get some sleep,” Eric said. “You got a high quality inflatable bed up there, don’t let it go to waste.”

A giggle escaped Bitty’s mouth, and he nodded. “Thank you,” he said again. 

“Any time,” Eric said, and smirked. “There’s a joke to be made about blowing here, but for the sake of decency I’m gonna let it go.”

Sam’s exasperated voice drifted out from the bedroom. “Thank God.”

Eric barked out a laugh and turned to go inside. “Sleep well, kid,” he said over his shoulder. “See you at breakfast.”

“Good night,” Bitty said. He stood on the landing long enough to watch the door click shut behind Eric, before climbing the stairs to Scot’s attic, flopping down onto his air mattress and curling beneath the blankets, a new mantra sounding off steadily in his brain: _You’re gonna be okay._

*

Two days later, while sitting against the gray, speckled walls of the Toronto Pearson International Airport, Bitty Facetimed his mom. 

“Dicky!” She said, answering after the first ring.

“Hey, Mama,” Bitty said, beaming despite himself. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year, baby. Did you have fun with your friends?" 

Bitty nodded. “So much. But tell me about you! What have you been up to? I’ve been dying for the gossip.”

“Ooooh,” Suzanne’s grin turned sly. “You’ll never guess who Tracy Jackson brought home for the holidays.”

Conversation was easy between them, Suzanne filling Bitty in on the who kissed who at midnight (Tracy Jackson and her punk rock boyfriend) and who brought what terrible dish to Mrs. Doherty’s pot luck (club crackers and cheese whiz courtesy of the poor widower Brown).

“It really was one for the ages. The gossip mill hasn’t rested in days. I’ve been afraid Ms. Driscoll’s lips would flap right off.”

Bitty cackled. “Stop it!”

“Wicked woman. She dyed her hair purple, did I tell you that?”

“Purple?” Bitty gasped.

“She claims it’s ‘misty gray’,” Suzanne said, punctuating with finger quotes. “But the whole town knows the old bat’s just goin blind. Ain’t no one gonna say that to her face, though!”

Bitty clutched his stomach, wheezing. “Ohmigosh. Please, I need pictures.”

“Well, now that just wouldn’t be proper,” Suzanne said in mock offense, but she held a finger up to her lips in a shushing motion and winked at Bitty anyway.

“Don’t be getting yourself in any trouble now,” Bitty said firmly. “I wouldn’t want the garden ladies turning against you or anything.”

Suzanne flapped a hand at him. “Don’t you mind about those garden ladies. Peering over their hedges at me like I’m some monkey in a zoo. They can all go straight to hell.”

“Mama!” 

“Oh, really. The amount of fuss they kick up about the silliest things. You’d think they had a whole swarm of bees in their bonnets.”

Bitty’s stomach began to churn, and he spared a moment to regret the jumbo banana nut muffin he’d scarfed down in the airport cafe. “What kind of fuss have they been kickin up?”

Suzanne scoffed. “Nothing you or I am gonna pay any mind to, baby, so don’t you stress about it.”

“But, Mama-“ 

“Enough, Dicky,” Suzanne said sharply. “It’s a load of nonsense, is what it is. You get it out of your brain right now.”

Bitty opened his mouth to protest again – the last thing he wanted was for his mama to go to war with the neighborhood on his behalf – but Suzanne narrowed her eyes at him and held up a finger.

“Eric Richard Bittle, I know for a fact you got enough trouble in your life without worrying your pretty little head off about me. So you drop this, you hear me?”

“Yes, Mama,” Bitty said, cowed. 

“Good,” Suzanne said, nodding her approval. “Now, tell me why you really called, because I know it wasn’t to hear about Mrs. Driscoll’s purple hair.”

Bitty swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. He wasn’t sure how to ask what he needed to ask, and so what came out was a rapid jumble of half-formed sentences. “Well. The thing is- there’s graduation? I mean in May? Something about tickets. I don’t really know why there’s tickets, but there’s tickets. And I have to get them ahead of time. For, ya know, my people.”

“Your people?”

Bitty was looking at the screen but he couldn’t force his eyes to meet his mother’s. “You,” he said. “And- and Coach.” Bitty rushed on before Suzanne could respond. “And of course Jack will be coming too, and his parents I think. And Scot! And his parents, but I don’t have to get tickets for them so that probably doesn’t matter but you should know that they’ll be there and-“

“Dicky!” Suzanne finally shouted, cutting off Bitty’s frantic ramble. 

“Sorry,” Bitty muttered, and the look on Suzanne’s face was one of such fondness and heartbreak that he had to look away from the screen.

“Baby, of course we’re coming.”

“You- I mean, you both are?”

“Yes,” Suzanne said, firm. “Even if I have to drag your father there by his shoelaces.”

Bitty choked out a giggle.

“Honestly,” Suzanne muttered to herself, and Bitty was pretty certain he wasn’t meant to hear, but her voice was abnormally amplified through his headphones. “I mean what kind of father- that man- to think his own son’s sitting there worried about- oh we’re gonna have words, you bet your ass-“

“Mama!” Bitty wailed. “I can hear you.” 

Suzanne sighed. “Sorry, baby. You just tell me what I need to do for graduation, and I’ll get it done, alright?”

“You’ll, um, need to book a hotel or something soon,” Bitty told her. “A lot of people come to Boston for graduations in May, everything fills up real fast.”

“Easy as pie,” Suzanne said, tsking. “I’ll get straight on that, and we will see your smiling face in May, okay?”

The promise of seeing his parents, finally, made his whole body feel lighter. “Yeah. Yeah that sounds good,” Bitty said, grinning. “Thanks, Mama.”

“You got it, sugar. You have a safe flight now. Let me know when you get back to that hockey shack of yours.”

Bitty laughed. “Yes, Mama. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, baby,” Suzanna said with a little wave. “I’ll see you soon.”

* 

When Scot returned to campus two days before the start of Spring semester, Bitty immediately shanghaied them into being the taste-tester for his latest senior research endeavor.

“What am I looking at?” Scot asked dubiously.

Bitty frowned at them. “It’s an éclair.”

“An éclair. Right.” Scot stared down at their plate. “Is it supposed to be flat?”

“Oh my gosh.”

“Cuz I mean it kind of looks like a caterpillar,” Scot said, turning the plate slightly to get a better angle. “A squashed caterpillar.” They squinted at it. “A caterpillar you ran over on your bicycle.”

“Would you just try it?” Bitty huffed.

Scot raised an eyebrow. “Is it gonna taste like a caterpillar?”

Bitty narrowed his eyes in an impressive imitation of his mother. “I’m gonna take it away from you in a minute.”

“No, no!” Scot said. “I wanna eat it!” They picked the pastry up gingerly. “I can just pretend I’m on Fear Factor or something.” 

Bitty threw his hands up in the air and turned on his heel, stalking back over to the sink. Scot chewed thoughtfully at the table while Bitty aggressively scrubbed at his dirty dishes. 

“I mean, it’s totally delicious,” Scot said after a moment. “It just looks, ya know, grotesque.”

Bitty sighed, dumping the dish he was holding into the sink and plopping down in a chair next to Scot. “I know,” he said sadly. “I just can’t get the choux to rise. I’ve been trying all day!”

Scot patted him on the arm. “You’ll get there,” they said, and then snorted. “Although I honestly expected more from you, Bitty. You’d think after banging Zimmermann for a year you’d be an expert in the rise department.” 

Bitty groaned and slapped Scot’s hand away. “That was Eric levels of bad. No, that was worse than Eric. You were clearly home too long.”

“Oh!” Scot said, scooting their chair back from the table. “I almost forgot!” They reached down to pull something out of their bag. “Eric told me to give this to you.”

Bitty wiped his hands on the kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. “What is it?”

Scot shrugged. “No idea.” 

Bitty rolled his eyes and took the package, peeling away the brown paper wrapping. A note fell out. In truly appalling handwriting it said: _Hey kid – figured out something I could do. Hope it helps. –Eric._ Bitty smiled and set the note down on the table. The last of the wrapping paper fell away to reveal a battered notebook. Puzzled, Bitty opened it up to a random page, the same messy writing scrawled alongside diagrams and hastily added notes, and it dawned on him. “It’s a playbook,” he laughed.

Scot, who had been watching eagerly, sat back in their chair and rolled their eyes. “Hockey shit. Of course.” 

Bitty glanced at a few more pages. He was proud to say that a lot of it was familiar, but some of it was certainly new, and would undoubtedly be put to good use when practice started up again. Bitty clutched the notebook to his chest and beamed. _You’re gonna be okay_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point on, Scot's pronouns in this story will be they/them. If you notice any I've missed, please let me know. 
> 
> New chapter every Wednesday. Today's chapter brought to you by "Pa'lante" by Hurray for the Riff Raff. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AOL2OkV-TkU
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments last week - an ugly eclair for all of you. 
> 
> A very merry Christmas to you and yours if that's your thing, and many good wishes to everyone celebrating something else (or nothing at all. You get wishes too). If you're looking to get in the holiday spirit, please consider watching Breakfast With Scot, aka the number one Tom Cavanagh Christmas movie (number two being, of course, Snow, that Santa Claus classic). 
> 
> If you have Christmas movie rankings to share, or just want to express feelings about Tom Cavanagh, leave me a comment or find me on tumblr as achoo-gesundheit.


	9. Chapter 9

Bitty could remember, Freshman year, several upperclassmen assuring him that second semester senior year was a breeze. Most students would have already earned the majority of the credits for their degree program and pared down their class schedule to three days a week, leaving four days of intense party time and maximum college enjoyment. Those upperclassmen, Bitty realized belatedly, were all hockey players whose primary concern was making it to the Frozen Four, none of whom were working thirty two hours a week at the beck and call of a likely insane Frenchwoman, or who were elbow deep in a senior project which had a deadline steadily approaching. If he had had time to really think on it, Bitty might have felt cheated of that breezy, promised semester. As it stood though, Bitty barely had time to brush his teeth in the morning, let alone daydream about the spring he could have had.

Jack was equally occupied, the Falconers making real progress towards a possible spot in the playoffs, but they both carved out decisive minutes for each other every day.

“How was work?” Jack asked when Bitty answered his Facetime call on a brutally windy day in early February.

Bitty groaned. January had been a month of change at Pépère, with Tania still out on maternity leave and Fiona gone to Baltimore to marry her Irish boyfriend and presumably pop out four or five children of her own. This resulted in a promotion for Bitty, which came with an extra shift, a twenty-five cent raise, and the responsibility of training the newest kitchen baby, a bright-eyed dental school dropout named Robbie, who was determined to start a new life as a culinary professional. This meant Bitty had moved from shaping tarts to making cookies, and as Valentine’s Day grew nearer and nearer, Bitty spent the majority of his time cutting out various sized sugar hearts and chocolate hearts and jam hearts and so on, ad nauseam.

“If I never see another heart again it will be too soon,” he told Jack, tugging his sneakers off to rub at his sore feet. 

“Does that mean I should cancel the order for the heart-shaped melon bouquet I got you?”

Bitty narrowed his eyes at him. “You think you’re funny, Jack Zimmermann. But you’re not.”

Jack chuckled. “I’m sorry your day was so terrible.”

“Thanks, honey,” Bitty said, forcing himself upstairs despite the way his legs screamed in protest. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

On this particular day, his total cookie count had clocked in at over a thousand. Robbie had also earned his first kitchen merit badge – “Baby’s First Burn.” He had spent two hours of his shift staring at it in horror until Bitty managed to get a band-aid on him. On top of that, Angelique had come in to help, a word that Bitty imagined must mean something else in her native language. She ended up shaping a batch of baguettes that more closely resembled dildos than any bread Bitty had ever seen, burnt three trays of cookies by flat out refusing to set a timer, and sent Robbie to the bathroom in tears when she criticized his petite shaping technique by physically slapping his hands away from the tart and shouting at him. 

Bitty made it to the landing, shuffling the last few yards to his room at a snail’s pace. He could hear Chowder coughing across the hall, and he waved half-heartedly at Wicks who was headed down to the kitchen in his pajamas with a box of tissues tucked under his arm.

The Haus, while normally a refuge from the discrete brand of mayhem Pépère maintained, was currently a den of infirmity, as nearly the entire hockey team had come down with the flu. Bitty had taken to just leaving a pot of chicken soup on the stove twenty-four seven, and to obsessively sanitizing everything he could reach before he went to bed.

“You’re not getting sick are you?” Jack asked, brow furrowing as Bitty sneezed into his sleeve.

“I certainly hope not.” Bitty scrubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. “I’ve got a project deadline coming up and I really can’t afford to miss any shifts at work.” 

Jack’s worry was evident though, and Bitty sighed.

“I’m fine, sweetheart. I just need some sleep.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “Get some rest. Call me tomorrow?” 

“You betcha,” Bitty said with a smile.

*

“Jesus, Bitty,” Jack said the next day. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks a lot,” Bitty said, but it came out “danks a glot,” congestion clogging up his nose and fogging his brain.

“This happened overnight?” Jack asked.

Bitty nodded glumly. “I woke up like this.” He blew his nose ferociously into a tissue, and Jack winced. “I feel like death,” Bitty moaned, tipping himself sideways back onto the bed, bringing his phone with him. “I wasn’t supposed to get sick.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Jack said softly. “Did you take some medicine?" 

“Chowder brought me some this morning.” Bitty pouted at him. “I wish you were here.”

Jack sighed. “Me too. Do you want me to come up?”

“No!” Bitty practically yelled. “Absolutely not. You’ve got three games this weekend, you can’t afford to get sick.”

“Yeah, but-" 

“No buts!” Bitty said, waggling a finger at him.

Jack frowned at him. “I thought you liked my butt.”

“Honey, I love your butt,” Bitty said seriously. “This is not about your butt.”

“I could bring my butt there,” Jack offered.

Bitty shook his head furiously. “Don’t you dare. I’m declaring a medical emergency. We’re quarantining the Haus. And campus. Just, you know, all of this whole part of the state. Stay away.”

Jack chuckled. “Okay, alright. But you know I would risk my butt for you any day, right?”

“Your butt is a national treasure, honey, it must be protected. And if the reason the Falconer’s don’t make it to the Playoffs is because Jack Zimmermann’s boyfriend sneezed on him, I would be a national disgrace.” Bitty did sneeze then, turning his head away from his camera so that he ended up sneezing quite hideously into his bedspread, so much so that he bounced back from the force of it.

Jack did not laugh, but when Bitty saw his face he knew it was a close thing.

“Not a word,” he said, glaring at the camera, and Jack pointedly remained silent, biting his lip in an effort to contain his amusement.

“Can I at least send you something?” He asked a moment later.

Bitty tried to subtly push aside the bit of comforter that he’d sneezed on, and shrugged tiredly. “Just as long as it’s not heart shaped.” 

*

“I can’t believe none of you boys got flu shots,” Alicia Zimmermann said all of thirty six hours later, standing in the Haus kitchen and taking in the sad state of affairs within.

Bitty was valiantly trying to work on his senior project, but he kept losing track of what he was doing mid-task, and had taken to just rereading the same cookbook page over and over again. Across from him sat Scot, head down on the table and arms splayed out in front of them. Their own apartment was facing a similar scourge as the Haus, both of their roommates still home in bed, but Scot had ventured out in the hopes that there would at least be food there. They had made it as far as a kitchen chair before becoming too tired to actively search the fridge. In the living room, Wicks and Chowder were draped across the sofa in matching despair, the wastebasket they’d pulled from the bathroom full of used tissues and spilling over onto the floor. Dex and Nursey had yet to make it downstairs, although Dex had yelled down from their room to assure Bitty that so far they were both still breathing.

Alicia just tutted at them, and began pulling things out of the shopping bags she’d carried in with her.

Bitty was not entirely sure how she’d gotten inside in the first place. “Scot,” he said, reaching over to poke them in the shoulder. “Did you lock the door?” 

“Hmm?” Scot asked, voice muffled against the wood of the table.

“When you came in?”

Scot tilted their head just slightly to stare blearily at Bitty. “What door?”

“The front door,” Bitty said. “The one at the front.”

Scot blinked at him for a second and then giggled. “Door’s a funny word,” they said, rolling their head back to be face down on the table.

“Can you breathe like that?” Alicia asked, concerned. 

“Can’t breathe anyway,” Scot said. “My head’s heavy. Table’s nice. Cold. Mmmmmm.”

“It’s a wonder any of you are still breathing at this rate,” Alicia said, shaking her head.

“Hey,” Bitty said, mildly affronted, but it was punctuated by a fit of coughing that had Alicia rolling her eyes and rifling through her bags for a cough drop. 

“Jack wasn’t kidding then,” she said, handing Bitty the drop. “The Samwell spring plague strikes again.” 

Scot, who had miraculously not fallen asleep on the table, started giggling. “A plague on both your houses,” they whispered dramatically, and then started coughing as well, head springing awkwardly off the table with each hack.

Alicia tossed a cough drop down in front of them. “Don’t choke, darling,” she said, and put a pot of tea on to boil. 

*

Alicia’s visit to the Haus had been short and purposeful. She stocked the fridge full of orange juice and containers of soup, provided a stockpile of over-the-counter flu medication that made the Haus look like some kind of underground pharmacy, and two weeks later the Samwell men were teetering unsteadily back into full health. But the bout of flu had taken a real toll on the hockey team, gracing them with a four game losing streak and pretty low spirits. The Falconers, on the other hand, were playing phenomenal hockey, and Jack was all focused, frenetic energy all the time. Bitty had hardly seen him at all since Christmas, as both their schedules were filling up faster and faster.

Valentine’s Day passed with no fanfare to speak of. Bitty worked a ten hour shift at the bakery, typed a few paragraphs of culinary bullshitting into the Word document kept constantly open on his desktop, and then fell asleep fully dressed with all the lights on, missing his call with Jack completely. He got chirped for it the next day, but there were more and more pressing matters to be seen to, and any hope of romance was forgotten in the blur of full-time hockey and academic commitments.

The semester steamed on, and just as it seemed to be tipping decidedly into Spring, an early March snowstorm buried New England in two feet of snow in twenty four hours, essentially halting the inertial momentum of the entire Northeastern seaboard for a day. Bitty had nearly frozen to death that morning waiting for a bus that was forty five minutes late. By the time he made it to work the snow was less falling and more bludgeoning, blanketing the roads in marshmallow white. After three hours of half-assed baking, phones began pinging with alerts that trains and buses would be shutting down due to white-out conditions, and Angelique instructed Tania to send them all home.

Tania nearly threw her phone across the bakery. “Well, gosh. What a productive day we’ve had.” She gestured to the table full of half finished cookies. “So glad we all got our asses out of bed at the crack of fucking dawn to showshoe into fucking work this morning.”

Pete snorted.

“I took the bus,” Robbie said.

“Oh my god,” Tania said, throwing her hands up in surrender. “Alright, let’s go losers. Drinks on me.”

“Hell yes!” Pete cheered, pumping his fist in the air. He began to clean his bench with rapid enthusiasm, gleefully punching dough down into overnight proofing buckets.

“I’ve had it up to fucking here with that woman,” Tania muttered, throwing utensils into the dish pit with wild abandon. “Bitty, just throw that shit in the freezer,” she said, waving a hand at the cookies he was still cutting out. “We’ll bake ‘em tomorrow. Robbie, baby, why are you looking at me like that?” 

Robbie’s eyes drifted down to his watch. “It’s eleven thirty in the morning.”

“It’s happy hour somewhere,” Tania said.

“I’m not really sure that’s true.”

“Oh for god’s sake, kid, just let me buy you a fucking beer, alright?" 

Cowed and wide-eyed, Robbie nodded. 

Pete clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him sideways. “That’s the spirit.”

By the time they got the kitchen in order it was nearly noon, and the snow had fallen so fast that Pete had to shovel them a path out of the bakery.

“Oh my gosh,” Robbie said as the three of them watched Pete through the front windows. “What if we all get stuck here?”

Bitty shrugged. “At least we won’t run out of food.”

“Depends on how long we’re stuck, though, right?” Tania added with a grin. “Way this snow’s falling, could be days.” She winked at Bitty, who had participated in enough chirping sessions to catch on pretty quick.

“Who knows?” he said, serious. “Could be weeks.”

“Weeks?” Robbie whispered.

“The food definitely wouldn’t last that long,” Tania said, shaking her head. She leaned back in her chair, propping her feet up on the café table. “Might get a little desperate in here.”

Bitty nodded solemnly.

“Whaddya think, Bittle? Who would you eat first?”

Robbie made a high-pitched yelping noise and turned to Bitty in shock.

Bitty made a show of thinking about it for a moment before nodding decisively. “Definitely Petey.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tania agreed. “He is the biggest, after all.”

“Most bang for your buck,” Bitty said.

“Oh my god.” Robbie gaped at them, head swiveling between them like a bobble-head before returning to Pete, who had managed to clear a meager three feet of sidewalk.

“I’m thinking maybe a slow braise,” Tania said. “I mean, we’ll have time, right?”

Bitty hummed in agreement.

“Maybe some cinnamon, some rosemary. He’d be nice with, like, an apple compote or something.”

“This is awful!” Robbie wailed, covering his face with his hands.

“No, actually that sounds pretty good,” Bitty said.

Robbie gasped. “But- but it’s Pete!” he said, distressed. “You wouldn’t eat Pete!”

“Desperate times,” Bitty said gravely.

“Desperate measures,” Tania finished, just as Pete burst back in through the front door, wind blowing snowdrifts in behind him.

He shouldered the door closed against the storm and dropped onto a chair in defeat. “Looks like we might be stuck here for a while, guys,” he said, and Robbie actually shrieked in abject horror. Pete watched, bewildered, as Bitty and Tania broke down into uncontrollable laughter, high fiving across Robbie’s head. “I missed something, didn’t I?” Pete asked.

Tania and Bitty both tried to explain, but every time they tried to talk they would start wheezing with laughter again.

“What?” Pete asked, turning to Robbie. “What’s so funny?”

Robbie wrung his hands together, unable to look at him. “They said- I mean if we got stuck here and we ran out of food and we had to eat- if we had to- they said- well, they said they’d eat you first,” Robbie finished, voice nearly inaudible towards the end. 

Pete goggled at Tania and Bitty, who had burst into loud guffaws again. “Me? Why me? What about you two?”

“I’m too lean,” Bitty protested quickly. “All muscle, no meat.”

“And I have a four month old baby at home,” Tania pointed out. “And also I’m smarter than all of you and deserve to outlive you.”

Pete scoffed, and Tania snorted, and then it was a full on debate detailing the order and preparation involved in the cooking and consumption of the Pépère kitchen staff. Robbie still look appalled, but Bitty had heard weirder conversations between Ransom and Holster on a fairly regular basis, and so contributed now and then with an air of casual amusement.

Eventually, Tania turned an oven back on and made them all pizza, which they ate while sitting atop the rickety café tables and watching the snow fall outside. There came a time for real concern, when several hours had passed without a snowplow sighting, at which point Pete called the snow emergency line and Tania called her husband, and bets were placed as to who would rescue them first – Tania’s smitten retired Marine in their clanking Volvo station wagon, or the so-far unseen city services. Bitty, who was not sure either bet was likely, took advantage of their distraction and called Jack.

“Hey,” Jack said, and Bitty didn’t realize he’d been cold until he felt warmth run through him then, making him shiver.

“Hey yourself,” Bitty said, smiling. “You enjoying your snow day?”

“Yeah, actually. They closed the rink even. It’s been… a nice break, to be honest.”

Bitty laughed. “I bet. You’ve been working hard.”

“Mmm,” Jack agreed. “What about you?”

“Well,” Bitty said, glancing back at his co-workers, “I’m currently stuck at work.”

“You’re what?” Jack asked, voice climbing. “Why are you at work?”

“Angelique wanted us all to come in this morning,” Bitty explained, trying to keep the annoyance out of his tone. “We were only here for a few hours before the city shut down. Now we’re just waiting for the snow to let up.”

“Haven’t they plowed the roads yet?”

“I think they’re trying,” Bitty said. “But it’s coming down really fast.” The snow level pressed against the front windows had risen considerably, and the snow was still falling. “I’m just hoping they get here before dark.”

“Before- Bitty that’s crazy!” Jack said.

“I know, honey, but there’s not a whole lot we can do about it. Tania and Pete both made some phone calls, hopefully someone will get here soon to dig us out.” Aware of the company he was in, Bitty took a couple more steps out of earshot. “I wish I was snowed in with you, though,” he said, low. “I bet I could help with that relaxation.”

Jack exhaled heavily through the phone. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bitty said. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” Jack sighed.

“When am I gonna see you again?”

“We’re playing in Boston sometime in April,” Jack said.

“April’s too far away,” Bitty whined.

Jack chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, and then went quiet for a moment, considering. “They’ve already sent out cancellations for tomorrow,” Jack said. “Which means I’m officially free for the next forty eight hours.”

“Which sounds wonderful, honey, but doesn’t solve the problem of you being miles away and me being stuck in a bakery.”

“Right,” Jack said decisively after a beat. “Give me an hour or so, and I’ll get back to you on that.” 

Bitty narrowed his eyes. “You’re scheming. I can tell.” 

“Maybe,” Jack said, cryptic. “I’ll let you know.”

Bitty was still wary, but his prospects were looking fairly grim at the moment. “Alright,” he said. “But don’t do anything crazy.”

“When have I ever done anything crazy?” Jack asked innocently, and Bitty snorted. 

“I love you, you crazy person,” Bitty said fondly.

“Love you, too,” Jack replied, and then the call clicked off.

Two hours and four games of euchre later, the misty lights of a snowplow tilted in through the window. Trailing behind it was Jack’s truck, a vision of snow covered all-wheel drive.

Bitty felt that familiar shiver of warmth again, and grinned.

“Who the fuck is that?” Tania asked, frowning.

“It’s the city!” Pete crowed, reaching out with grabbing hands to demand his winnings. “Told ya.”

“I don’t think it’s the city,” Robbie said, squinting at the snowplow. “There’s no logo on the side of the truck.”

“Huh?” Pete replied, just as Tania asked “What the hell?” and they both stepped closer to peer out through the windows.

Bitty watched Jack jump out of the truck, high-stepping through the snow to knock lightly on the bakery door, and he ran to open it.

“Hi,” Jack said, all smile and red cheeks with snow caught in his hair and Bitty could not help himself, leaning up on tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. Jack returned it eagerly, gloved hand coming up unconsciously to frame Bitty’s face, and Bitty jumped back with a yelp.

“That’s really cold!” he laughed, batting Jack’s hand away.

“Sorry,” Jack said, not looking sorry at all.

“I’m sorry,” Tania said from behind him. “But what the fuck?” 

Pete blinked over her shoulder. “That’s- Is that Jack Zimmermann?”

Robbie was doing a pretty passable fish impression next to them, mouth hanging open comically.

“Hi,” Jack said again. “I heard you were stuck.”

“That’s Jack fucking Zimmermann!” Pete shouted, pointing at him.

Tania began muttering in astonished Spanish under her breath, pulling out her phone.

Bitty’s heart leapt into his throat and he took a quick step forward. “Um, okay, right, yes this is Jack Zimmermann-“

Jack lifted a hand in an awkward wave.

“-and he is my boyfriend, haha wow so crazy, crazy times- y’all have to promise that you won’t tell anyone. Please? I know that’s- I know that’s not really fair but Jack’s kind of famous and we’re trying-“ he cut himself off with a choked out laugh “-fairly unsuccessfully, apparently, to be discreet.” His eyes slid over to Jack who was still smiling but also staring steadily at Bitty’s coworkers. Robbie was shrinking further and further back under his gaze, and Bitty nudged an elbow into Jack’s side, glaring at him. Jack schooled his face into something softer, but his message, one that Robbie had surely taken to include ass-kickings and pay-offs under the cover of night, was clearly coming across anyway. “I know y’all are good people,” Bitty said. “We’d really, really appreciate it if you kept this a secret." 

“For now,” Jack added, and Bitty’s breath caught in his chest.

“For now,” he agreed.

Without looking, Jack reached out to twine his fingers into Bitty’s. “So,” he said, forced and casual, “who needs a ride?”

*

“You. Are. A grade-A. Lunatic,” Bitty said after they’d dropped everybody off at their homes.

Jack smiled shyly and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

“I can’t believe you drove all the way here from Providence,” Bitty said, shaking his head. Then, “Oh my gosh! Did you follow that snowplow here all the way from Providence?”

“What?” Jack asked, surprised. “No, of course not. The highways are drivable already, for the most part. Terrence lives here in Norwood,” Jack said, pointing in front of them to where the plow’s taillight’s shone through the windshield.

“Oh,” Bitty said. “Still.”

Jack looked over at him for a quick second, taking in the way Bitty had wrapped his arms around himself and curled up on the seat. He turned his eyes back to the road. “You’re uncomfortable.”

Bitty chewed at his lip, not sure how to explain the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Is it because your coworkers found out?” Jack asked quietly.

“No!” Bitty said quickly, laying a hand on Jack’s arm. “It’s not that at all. It’s-“ he ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up at all angles. “All the snowplows are working to clear the main roads, which means you must have paid this person-

“Terrence.”

“Terrence,” Bitty restated, “a considerable amount of money just to come and get me.”

“Bits, I’m- you know I’m rich, right?” Jack said, jokey.

“Yes.”

“But it makes you uncomfortable,” Jack supplied.

This conversation was going to a place Bitty usually carefully avoided, and he wasn’t sure how to navigate it. “Not the you being rich part,” he explained.

“Just the spending money part.” Jack’s voice had gone tight and weird and Bitty knocked his head against the window in frustration.

“The spending money on me part!”

Jack’s head swiveled back to look at him, confused. “What?" 

“I’ve never had that kind of money, Jack,” Bitty said, quiet. “The kind that lets you just hire a personal plow in the middle of a Nor’easter to pick up your boyfriend. Just because you feel like it.”

Jack tightened his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles going white.

“It’s still really new to me. It feels… extravagant.” Outside, the sky was going dark with evening as the snow continued to fall.

“Extravagant,” Jack repeated, accent lilting slightly on the vowels in a way that brought Bitty suddenly back to Christmas in Montreal, gifts given carefree and easy, his last car ride with a Zimmermann.

“Undeserved,” Bitty clarified.

“Bitty,” Jack said softly.

“I just- you can make all these grand gestures, you know? Buying me ovens, and mixers, and- and snowplows,” Bitty finished sort of lamely, waving a hand towards Terrence. “I can’t do that for you. I can’t repay you for all that stuff.”

“You’re not supposed to. That’s- Bitty, that’s how gifts work.”

“No, I know, it’s just, sometimes I feel like you give me so much more than I can give you.”

Jack took a breath, shaking a little on the inhale. “I’m sorry,” he started, and Bitty opened his mouth to protest but Jack continued. “I’m new at this, too,” he said slowly. “And you’re right. I’ve always had money. But you give me things I’ve never really had before, too.”

“Like what?” Bitty asked, quiet and skeptical.

Jack was quiet for a minute, as if trying to piece together what to say. “You make things… quiet. You’re comfortable. I mean,” he fumbled, “I’m comfortable when I’m with you. I can just… be me,” he explained. “That’s not something I’ve really had before, on a regular basis.”

Bitty laid a careful hand on Jack’s leg, and kept listening.

“And you know I’m not always good at, um, communicating? Or expressing gratitude, I guess. But I am.” He took one hand off the steering wheel to rest atop Bitty’s. “Grateful.”

Bitty rolled that over in his head for a minute, and blinked up at Jack. “You’re saying it’s easier to spend hundreds of dollars on lavish gifts and dramatic rescue missions than it is to just say ‘thank you’?” Bitty asked, incredulous. 

Jack huffed out a laugh and squeezed Bitty’s hand. “Yeah.”

“Oh, Lord help me,” Bitty said, flipping his hand over to wind his fingers in between Jack’s. “I am absolutely dating a lunatic.”

Jack laughed for real then, warm and reassuring, and Bitty smiled, letting his body relax back into Jack’s plush, heated seats, and shook his head.

“A rich, emotionally constipated lunatic.”

*

They spent the next day lazy and slow, wound up together in Bitty’s bed. The snow stopped falling sometime that night, but they didn’t go outside to check. It had been a long time since they’d been together like this, without reason or obligation, and Bitty reveled in it. He let Jack kiss him, unhurried, for hours; closed his eyes as Jack ran gentle fingers through his hair; let his own hands roam across warm skin, Jack’s body a map of carefully maintained muscle.

Sometime after dawn, the lovesick stupor Bitty had felt so often that first year with Jack set back in, and he couldn’t contain his smile.

“What?” Jack asked, smiling against Bitty’s lips. 

“Nothing,” Bitty said, returning the kiss. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” Jack’s hand trailed up and down Bitty’s arm, a ghosting, barely-there pressure that made Bitty’s toes curl. “Hey,” he said softly, after a moment.

“Mmm?” Bitty replied, eyes drooping closed.

“Have you thought at all about this summer?” Jack asked.

Bitty opened one eye in question. “Whaddya mean?”

Jack’s fingers stilled for a moment, doing a quick, nervous tap against Bitty’s upper arm that spoke multitudes. “Where you might… go?”

“Oh,” Bitty said quietly. “Not… really?” 

“Not really?” Jack replied, laughing a little. “Graduation is only a few months away.” 

“I know.”

“You won’t be able to stay in the Haus,” Jack pointed out.

“I know!”

Jack’s smile slipped, and his eyes widened at Bitty. “You really haven’t thought about it?”

“I’ve been kinda busy,” Bitty said into his pillow, refusing to acknowledge the incredulous look on Jack’s face, which softened almost instantly at that.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said immediately, fingers resuming their petting in apology.

Bitty swatted feebly at his chest. “Stop that,” he said, relieved when Jack’s small smile returned. “Besides, you’re not wrong,” Bitty added. “I should probably be thinking about it more.”

Jack went quiet, in the way he always did when he was gearing up to say something difficult, and Bitty waited. He didn’t have to wait very long this time.

“You could move in with me.”

And it wasn’t a surprise exactly, but the words still rolled over Bitty like a steamroller, leaving him feeling breathless, and nervous, and so, so loved. And there weren’t words for that, so Bitty leaned in to kiss him. Jack kissed back without thinking, and Bitty realized this could be his all the time. He could see Jack every day, could fall asleep with him every night, could touch him whenever he wanted. Jack’s hand moved from Bitty’s arm to brush against his cheek, and the possibility, this choice, was suddenly overwhelming. Bitty pulled away. Jack’s eyes had gone slightly dazed, and his lips were shiny from Bitty’s mouth, and Bitty couldn’t look at him, couldn’t possibly be expected to make this decision with Jack’s body too warm, and too close, and his mouth doing that modest little quirk of a grin that Bitty knew too well. 

“Is that a yes?” Jack whispered.

Bitty took an unsteady breath, and shook his head. “But it’s not a no, either!” he said hastily, arms reaching out to wrap around Jack. “I just need some time, okay? To really think about it?”

Jack nodded quickly, and tugged at Bitty until they were pressed chest to chest, Jack’s chin tucked neatly over Bitty’s shoulder.

Bitty traced circles onto Jack’s skin, Jack pressed kisses to Bitty’s neck, and the chill that normally crept in through Bitty’s window wouldn’t touch them. But at some point, the Haus began to stir, hungry boys banging their way around the kitchen, and Bitty pulled Jack out of bed to find some breakfast.

“Do you think your coworkers will be alright?” Jack asked as they rounded up their clothes from the night before, and Bitty knew he was really asking, _Do you think they’ll tell?_

He shrugged, plucking Jack’s sweatshirt out of his hands and pulling it on, smirking at the offended look Jack shot him. “I don’t know, honey,” he said honestly. “I’d like to think they’ll keep it quiet-“

“Just for now,” Jack interrupted, like it was important that Bitty remembered.

“For now,” Bitty agreed, beaming, and pecked Jack quickly on the lips before opening the door. “But we’ll just have to wait and see.”

*

But when Bitty arrived at work that Wednesday, he was not filled with confidence. Pete snickered every time their eyes met, Robbie couldn’t even look at him without blushing, and Tania was staring at him with a cold, steady intent that filled Bitty with dread.

“Morning, y’all,” he said, calmly as possible, and started prepping his bench for the day. He had just begun the morning’s freezer inventory when the door to the walk-in banged open behind him. Tania’s eyes were steely, and she pointedly locked the freezer door.

“I’m wiling to keep this torrid secret of yours,” she said, “on one condition.”

Bitty was immediately wary, sure she was about to rattle off a sum that would make Bitty’s heart drop to his toes and that Jack wouldn’t blink an eye at. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stomach the betrayal that was about to happen.

But instead, tone deadly serious, she said, “I wanna touch his butt.”

The tray of tarts Bitty was holding nearly slipped through his fingers, and he scrambled to catch it before they hit the freezer floor. “You-“ he started, and realized his voice had gone oddly high. “You what?” he asked, struggling to keep it in a less embarrassing octave.

“I want. To touch. His butt,” she said slower, pausing between words, as if it was the speed of the sentence that was incomprehensible and not the offer to trade front page news for access to his boyfriend’s ass. 

This was not how Bitty was expecting his workday to go. But Tania’s eyes were still trying to bore holes through his skull, and he really needed this job to last at least until graduation. “Okay?” He said, then, “I mean I’ll have to ask, obviously, I don’t own his- I’ll ask!” He finished quickly, feeling his face heat up, and Tania’s face went from menacing to smug in the span of about a second.

“Good,” she said, unlocking the freezer door with a click. Bitty breathed an audible sigh of relief, and quickly shoved the tray he was still holding back on the speed rack. He was grateful for his now empty hands almost immediately, when Tania said lowly over her shoulder, “But by the way? I saw the way he looked at you. You definitely own that ass.”

The freezer door closed with a bang and Bitty resigned himself to dying of shame in the Pépère walk-in.

*

Jack had been surprisingly unruffled by the suggestion, and promised to get Bitty, Tania, and, after much pleading, Pete tickets to one of the Falconers v. Bruins playoff games in April. Maybe it was just that the team had already scored their playoff spot, or that Jack really was mellowing out, but he seemed, not excited per say, but electrified, ready to play. And, Bitty was relieved to note, relatively unbothered by the distraction of two riled up bakers, one of whom was gunning to grope him after the game. Bitty just hoped they didn’t lose, and that this energy Jack was coasting on could hold out until after the evening’s hockey had ended.

As it turned out, he shouldn’t have been worried. The Falconer’s crushed the Bruins, Jack doing a gleeful lap around the ice to the chorus of boos from home team fans. Bitty cheered and hollered and waved his hands around like a maniac, and Jack slowed down enough to waggle his fingers at him as he flew past. Pete cooed at him, making hushed, inappropriate remarks over Tania’s head, and Bitty flipped him the bird. Tania swatted at both of them, gesturing to the baby strapped to her chest. 

“Impressionable young minds,” she said, adjusting the noise cancelling baby earmuffs Elena was sporting.

Pete scoffed. “Have you met you? Keeping that kid’s mind clean is a losing battle, dude.”

Tania punched him in the shoulder, and Pete made a show of clutching his arm and wailing in pain. Bitty fidgeted nervously as the last of the players made their way off the ice. It would be a few minutes before Jack was done with the press and they could head down to the locker room, and he distracted himself by tweeting a pic of Pete and Tania slapping at each other like teenagers.

“You sure Robbie won’t be upset about not coming?” Bitty asked for the seventh time, and Tania rolled her eyes.

“I’d be surprised if he ever wanted to be within fifteen feet of Zimmermann again,” she said, and smirked. “Your boy did a real number on him. Pretty sure he believes there’s a trained hockey hit squad that may actually murder him in his sleep.”

Bitty scoffed, trying to explain that Jack was harmless, really, but Tania just raised an eyebrow and Pete guffawed next to her. He was saved further argument when the text came through.

_My glutes are at your service._

“Lord help us,” Bitty muttered, before clapping his hands loudly to interrupt the argument that had picked back up in the last thirty seconds. “Alright, children! Best behavior!” He said, pointing at both of them in turn and narrowing his eyes. “I mean it!” 

They both valiantly restrained their laughter, nodding their assent, Pete even offering a cocky salute. 

This was not going to go well.

They made it past team security with minimal tomfoolery, the guard who checked their names off even reaching down to boop baby Elena on the nose with a grin. 

“Striking fear into the hearts of men, this security team,” Tania whispered, and Pete broke into uncontrollable cackles that Bitty firmly ignored.

The locker room was crowded when they finally made their way inside, and Bitty led the way purposefully to Jack. Pete and Tania followed at a considerably slower pace, ogling their surroundings with wide-eyed abandon. Jack was sitting next to Tater in front of his locker, who beamed when he spotted Bitty.

“Itty Bitty!” Tater bellowed, sweeping him off his feet and into a hug. “Have you brought us pie?”

Bitty laughed, swatting at Tater’s arms until he was set down. “Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “Playoffs just started, and I have been instructed by several adamant members of the Falconer’s staff to restrict all access to baked goods.”

Tater immediately began to pout, but it disappeared in a flash when Tania caught up to them and he saw Elena. He exclaimed something in Russian and bent down to be face to face with the infant.

Tania, much to Bitty’s amusement, seemed to be speechless, allowing Tater to poke and tickle Elena to his heart’s content. Pete’s mouth, which had fallen open the minute they set foot in the locker room, had yet to close.

Bitty ignored them and went over to Jack, who greeted him with their customary locker room fist bump.

“Hi,” Jack said, smile pulling at his lips.

“Hey, you,” Bitty said softly. “Thanks for doing this.”

Jack shrugged. “People touch my butt all the time. It’s not like it’s a hardship.”

“Yes, well,” Bitty trailed off, reaching a finger up to tug at his collar, which was quickly becoming stifling.

Jack bit his lip, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that was completely irresponsible. Bitty diverted his gaze to stare resolutely at his left ear, which is when he noticed the photographer hovering just behind them.

“I thought the press had already left?” Bitty asked.

“What?” Jack said, head swiveling to see where Bitty was looking. “Oh, that’s the team photographer. He’s here to take pictures of Tania touching my butt.”

Bitty boggled at him.

“George thought it would be a good idea,” Jack explained. “To, um, my image?”

“Your image,” Bitty repeated dumbly.

“That I’m not a, you know, a robot.” Jack rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck, and Bitty wanted to hug him so bad it hurt.

Tater beat him to it.

“Even Zimmboni knows how to have fun sometimes, yes?” Tater said, slinging an arm around Jack’s shoulders. “He is not so serious as he wants us to see,” he said in a stage whisper to Tania and Pete.

Jack rolled his eyes, but made no move to escape Tater’s grasp.

“So!” Tater said excitedly. “Who is getting first grab?”

The pictures appeared on the Falconer’s social media the next day. Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook exploded with likes and shares of Tania, grinning like a lunatic, both hands on Jack’s ass and infant Elena burbling happily in her sling. It was accompanied by a photo of Pete poking one finger into a firm Russian butt cheek, Tater’s hands in front of his mouth like a scandalized southern belle. The caption read: _Won a game but lost a bet – Zimmermann and Mashkov paid up after last night’s win against the #NHLBruins. See you tomorrow, Boston!_

By the time Bitty made it to the bakery, Tania had printed out both photos and taped them to the reach-in, the message _REMOVE ON PAIN OF DEATH_ written on the masking tape in Sharpie. Bitty shook his head, counted out eighteen pounds of butter, and just barely kept himself from lobbing one at Pete’s head on his way by. But as Bitty was scaling out the recipe for tart dough Pete started blowing kisses across the bench, and if that afternoon Bitty refilled his Dunkin Donuts coffee creamer container with the café’s leftover pickle juice, well, that was nobody’s fault but Pete’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter every Wednesday. Today's chapter brought to you by "Snowfall" by Ingrid Michaelson. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjZJ__LysvM
> 
> A heart-shaped melon bouquet to everyone who left comments and kudos last week, you're all Valentines to me. 
> 
> Have a behind the scenes commercial kitchen story to share? Want to hear more of mine? Leave a comment, or find me on tumblr as achoo-gesundheit.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder: there are no villains in this story. Families are complicated, and people are complex, and I have made a real attempt to portray that complexity here.

“So whaddya think?” Scot asked.

It was the last week of April. The Falconers had made it to the next round of the Cup, and Jack was headed to Pittsburgh to face off against the Penguins in the first two games of round two.

Despite their best efforts, the Wellies had washed out of the playoffs in the second round. Bitty assured them all that they’d played an amazing season, and knew they’d do even better next year. He may have gotten a little choked up during his final speech as team captain, but he was really going to miss those boys.

Classes at Samwell had officially ended the day before, and in celebration of the end of their undergraduate career, as well as the Falconer’s success, Bitty and Scot were taking a break to have matching emotional breakdowns while day-drinking in the Haus kitchen. Lardo, who had arrived suddenly and angrily and with very little explanation, was painting Scot’s nails an astonishing shade of fuchsia. Bitty eventually managed to determine that she was in some kind of spat with Shitty and, under the guise of celebratory end of semester consumption, had bought a bottle of gin and run away to Samwell. Not that they were complaining.

Bitty drew absent-minded squiggles in the condensation on his glass and considered Scot’s question. “About after graduation, you mean?”

“We agreed not to speak the G-word!” Scot hissed at him, and Bitty stuck out his tongue in response.

“Touchy,” Lardo mumbled under her breath. 

Scot glared. “I seem to remember _someone_ expressing similar irritation last year. Who _was_ that?”

Lardo calmly painted a fuchsia stripe wide across Scot’s cuticle, and they yelped.

“Hey!” 

“You were saying?” Lardo asked. 

Scot narrowed their eyes, squinting at Lardo for a moment before turning back to Bitty. “You have choices, at least. May is a month of despair for those of us with no plans and no prospects,” they said. “But back to the initial question-“

Bitty sighed. “I think I don’t wanna think about it.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Lardo said, gaze never leaving Scot’s fingers, “but you guys don’t exactly have an abundance of time.”

Bitty dropped his chin onto the table with a humph. 

“Let’s review our options,” Scot said, lifting a hand to tick off on their fingers, before immediately returning it to the table when Lardo glared. “One,” they started, eyes darting nervously to Lardo before settling back on Bitty. “Move home.”

“That,” Bitty said carefully, “is probably not an option at present.”

“Shit, yeah, fair point, sorry,” Scot said quickly. “Okay, option two, move into a luxury townhouse with your rich and stunningly attractive boyfriend, who worships the ground you walk upon.”

Bitty rocked his head forward in acknowledgement and waited for option three. He was met with silence. “That’s it?” he asked.

Scot looked at him, eyes wide and incredulous. “You seriously need an alternative option to _that_?”

“Yes!” Bitty replied, and then groaned in frustration when Lardo turned gentle, pitying eyes his way. “Maybe? I don’t know!”

“Why wouldn’t you want to move in with Jack?” Scot asked, curious.

Bitty shrugged, a little helplessly. “I don’t know- it just feels, too soon, maybe?” 

One of Lardo’s eyebrows ticked up. “It’s been almost two years, brah.”

“I know,” Bitty grumbled. “It feels-“ He cut himself off, running a hand through already messy hair and staring absently down into his cocktail. “It feels too easy.”

Scot’s mouth opened and then closed again quickly when they couldn’t think of anything to say. Lardo reached a careful hand over to touch Bitty’s shoulder.

“Just because it’s easy doesn’t mean it’s the wrong choice.” 

Which Bitty knew, instinctively, had to be true. But so little in his life had come so easy. And giving way to the easier choice still felt too much like giving up. And as much as he tried to convince himself that living with Jack would be wonderful, a niggling voice at the back of his brain produced a near-constant litany of doubt – that being together all the time would change things for them, would make what they had less special, would dull the excitement and the passion and the heart-stopping joy of seeing Jack again after weeks of being away. Bitty looked at Lardo, hunched over the kitchen table, phone on silent, and couldn’t help but think he had some camaraderie amidst those hard and likely truths.

“It doesn’t mean it’s right either,” Scot finally said, pulling Bitty out of his head again. “If your gut is telling you it’s the wrong choice right now, you should listen.” 

Lardo nodded down at the table. “Guts rarely lie,” she said, a cryptic edge to her voice that Bitty made a mental note to press at later.

“Besides,” Scot added, blowing gently on their freshly polished nails. “It’s not like your boyfriend won’t still be rich and stunningly attractive next year.”

And that, the reminder that this decision, while looming large and daunting at the moment, was not one that was irreversible or even long-term, cemented the choice more firmly in Bitty’s brain. 

“I think,” he said, tentative, “I’d like to stay in Boston. For the time being, anyway.”

Scot, who had been maintaining a carefully neutral face across the table, broke into a huge grin. “Oh good, because I do too, and I one hundred percent need a roommate,” they said.

Bitty squeaked out a laugh, lifting his glass towards Scot in easy acceptance. “You got it, sugar.”

Lardo finished Scot’s last nail with a flourish before carefully screwing the cap back on the polish bottle. “In that case,” she said. “I have a proposal.”

As it turned out, her proposal was a wonderful one. Her argument with Shitty, which came to light after much wheedling on Bitty’s part, was largely about the same thing Bitty himself was struggling with. Cambridge apartments, even one bedroom ones, were shockingly expensive, and while Shitty was eager to be in the same space as Lardo twenty-four seven, she had her doubts about the soundness of that arrangement.

“I need my space,” she told them with a shrug.

So what transpired was a conference call with Shitty and the onset of the hunt for a reasonably priced four-bedroom apartment within biking distance of Harvard Law. Scot would get to stay in Boston, Lardo and Shitty (with the help of mediation) could live together without resorting to murder, and Bitty would still only be a forty-five minute drive from Jack, who all things considered took the news remarkably well.

“I just want you to be happy,” Jack said sincerely over the phone, and Bitty’s hand flew unconsciously to clutch at his heart. He was just so woefully and completely besotted with this marvel of a man. “You gonna watch the game tonight?” Jack asked later, after Bitty assured him they would still see so much of each other, and without homework or classes to worry about they would have so much more time, and he’d have a car and could drive to Providence whenever he wanted, and Jack had agreed and agreed and finally had to cut Bitty’s ramble off somehow, changing the topic on a dime. 

“Of course!” Bitty replied. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetheart.”

They won the game that night, and the next one. Then they lost two and won two more and when the final second ticked down in the sixth game, Bitty was watching, and then cheering, and hugging Chowder and Dex and Ollie and whoever was in reach. The Falconers were going to the conference finals. Bitty went to sleep that night exuberant.

But Jack called the next day, anxious and exhausted. Round three had them playing the Panthers. Their first two games would be in Providence, and the next two in Miami, and game three was scheduled for the day before Samwell’s graduation.

“Jack, honey, you don’t have to-“ Bitty started, but Jack interrupted almost immediately.

“I’m gonna make it,” he said, and there was an edge to his voice that Bitty hadn’t heard in a long time. It was this brand of blind determination and full-minded focus that had helped win him championships and his robot reputation. It stirred something familiar in Bitty’s gut, the memories of checking practices and poorly concealed rage racing to the front of his brain. It was unsettling to hear that seething resolution again. He didn’t like that he was playing a part in its return.

“It’s just a ceremony,” Bitty said. “It’s not important enough to compromise the semi-finals!”

“You are not a compromise,” Jack growled in response, and Bitty wanted to kiss him and also kick him in the head.

“That’s not what I’m saying! Whether you come to the stupid ceremony or not, I’m still graduating! It’s not worth the stress of flying out here for- what? Twenty-four hours? Less than that? You’ve been working towards this for so long and-“

“Do you want me to come?” Jack interjected.

“Jack-“

“Do you want me to come?”

Bitty sighed. “Of course I want you to come, sweetheart,” he said, soft. “But-“

“Then I’ll be there,” Jack said, unwavering. 

“Jack-“

“Bitty,” he said, slow and stubborn in a way that still sent shudders down Bitty’s spine. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world." 

*

On Bitty’s twenty-second birthday, he made himself a peach pie. Nothing fancy, no add-ins or tweaks or elevations, just regular peach, the way his mama used to make. His birthday used to mark the beginning of peach season in the Bittle household, Suzanne scouring farmer’s markets and grocery store shelves for those first fruits of the summer. There was something special about the first one, she always told him, that first, real Georgia peach of the year. Bitty was pretty sure the peaches he’d bought at Stop and Shop were not from Georgia. He was also pretty sure they weren’t in season yet in Massachusetts. But tradition was tradition, even when the rites were wrong.

The Haus was in the last fatal throes of finals, the boys dispersed to opposite ends of campus in search of the best study spot. Bitty’s only remaining obligation was his final project presentation, which was scheduled for Tuesday. But tonight was Friday, the Haus was empty, and Bitty was baking. And if he accidentally cried into his crust, tears dropping across the careful latticework he’d been practicing, there was no one in the kitchen to notice.

The pie had barely gone into the oven when his phone rang.

“ _Who run the world? Girls. Who run the world-“_

“Hi, Mama,” Bitty answered. 

“Happy Birthday, Dicky!” 

Bitty’s smile was watery. “Thanks.” He moved the phone to rest carefully between his shoulder and his ear and started washing dishes. 

“Are you celebrating?”

“Not really,” Bitty admitted. “It’s finals. Everyone’s kinda busy.”

Suzanne tsked. “What about that boy of yours?”

“It’s playoffs, Mama. Jack’s in Providence with the team.”

“Well still,” Suzanne scoffed. “You shouldn’t be all alone on your birthday.”

Bitty didn’t know what to say. He let the water run hot and scalding over his hands, and reached for a dirty bowl. “It’s fine.”

“It isn’t, but I’ll leave it be for now.”

“’preciate it,” Bitty mumbled in reply. 

There was a “hmph” at that, and he knew his mama had Things to Say. He could picture her, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, the look that told Bitty someone was about to get a talking to. He never thought he’d miss that look.

“I just can’t wait to see you,” Suzanne said, as if she could read Bitty’s thoughts. “Just another week or so before we leave!”

“It’s been a while,” Bitty agreed, stomach flip-flopping at the thought of seeing his mom, and his dad, again.

Suzanne scoffed. “Now there’s the understatement of the century, honey.”

She meant it as a joke, Bitty knew, but as he washed the last of the peach juice from the sink, it just made him want to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he said wetly. “I’m so sorry, Mama.”

“Baby, what in heaven’s name have you got to apologize for?” 

Bitty swiped at his eyes, leaving dishwater to drip down his cheeks. “I know this has been hard for you and Coach,” he said. “I know people have been talking.”

“Talk’s just talk, darlin,” Suzanne said firmly. “You know how it is down here. These old birds’ll talk about the dirt under their shoes if you let ‘em carry on long enough.”

Bitty’s hands were shaking, and he set the clean bowls gently down on the counter before he dropped them. “I know how it is,” Bitty agreed. “And I hate that you’re getting talked at because of me.”

“Oh, let them talk!” Suzanne said. “It’s no skin off my teeth if they talk themselves straight into the grave.”

“I’m sorry,” Bitty said again, breath shaky. “I’m sorry you have to deal with all this. I’m sorry I couldn’t have just been-“

“Stop,” Suzanne said, cutting him off. “You just stop that right now.”

“It’s my fault.”

“It is not.”

“I shouldn’t have told you,” Bitty said. “We could have all just kept on…”

Suzanne waited only a beat before finishing his sentence for him. “Pretending,” she supplied. “That’s what we were doing.”

Bitty sighed. “Yeah.”

Suzanne sighed in reply. “That’s not the same as being happy, Dicky.”

‘’Jack said the same thing,” Bitty said, almost a laugh. 

“Smart boy." 

Bitty smiled.

“Besides, I think you’ve been giving yourself too much credit,” Suzanne said, suddenly teasing. “I’ve known forever.”

Bitty’s stomach landed somewhere near his toes. “You- what? How?”

“You think I don’t know my own son?” Suzanne harrumphed.

Bitty had always thought he’d been so good, so subdued at home. He can’t remember his mother ever saying anything, ever even suggesting that she might know, and she’d known all along? “Forever?” Bitty asked, disbelieving.

“Well, maybe not forever,” she admitted. “But I saw you kissing that menace Nick Campbell behind the Wawa when you were fifteen, so that’s… what? Seven years at least?” She snorted. “Thank heavens that tryst didn’t last.”

“Mama!”

“Nick Campbell?” Suzanne asked. “Really?”

“He was cute!” Bitty protested.

“His teeth were too big for his face,” Suzanne quipped back, matter-of-fact.

“Ohmigosh,” Bitty replied, hands covering his face in embarrassment.

“Jack’s much cuter.”

“We have to stop now!” Bitty yelled into the phone.

“Alright, alright,” Suzanne conceded. “But you gotta promise me something.”

Bitty gulped. “Is it about kissing boys behind the Wawa? Because I promise I don’t do that anymore.” He added as an afterthought, “I’m pretty sure we don’t even have Wawa’s up here.”

“Hush, you,” Suzanne chided. “No. Promise me you won’t ever pretend – not for me, not for anyone. You got that?”

Bitty’s throat went tight, making his next question come out in more of a squeak. “What about Coach?” he asked softly.

Suzanne exhaled heavily in his ear. “You don’t have to pretend with him either,” she said finally.

Bitty scratched absently at the table, anxious for something to occupy his hands. “He seems like he would be happier if I did.”

“Your daddy is happiest when you’re happy.” 

“Is he happy now?”

Suzanne hesitated. “He doesn’t know what he is.”

“He hasn’t talked to me since August,” Bitty said, anger creeping into his voice.

“And you can bet I’m giving him hell for that,” Suzanne said.

“But you still defend him,” Bitty protested.

Suzanne sighed. “Whether he deserves it or not, all you can give him is your patience. He is still my husband,” she said. “And he is still your daddy, and he loves you dearly.”

“He has a funny way of showing it,” Bitty grumbled.

“I’ll give you that,” Suzanne conceded. “That man’s always had a hard time showing how he feels. Getting him to admit to anything is like pulling teeth sometimes.”

Bitty knew this, had long ago grown accustomed to Coach’s gruff demeanor, the chucks on the shoulder and the stoic nods the only outward signs of affection or approval. But this still felt different. Since August, Coach had gone from paying him slightly stilted yet genuine attention to a complete lack of acknowledgement of any kind. Bitty didn’t understand how his mama did it. If Jack suddenly stopped communicating with him, he’d suspect the worst.

“How can you know, then?” Bitty asked quietly. 

“Know what?”

“That he loves you.” The words tripped awkwardly off his tongue, and he clarified. “Loves me.”

“Oh, baby,” Suzanne breathed. She was silent for a moment, thinking, and then said, “It’s the little things, I suppose. The everyday things you don’t really notice, until you do.”

Bitty squirmed slightly in his kitchen chair. “Like what?” 

Suzanne didn’t say anything, and Bitty could almost see her chewing her lip in thought, the way he knew he did.

“Have you ever watched your daddy make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” she said finally. 

Bitty blinked. “What?”

“He likes a lot of jelly,” Suzanne continued. “Probably… two thirds jelly to one third peanut butter. Which is just wrong, ya know? You gotta get more peanut butter on there. That’s the best part.” 

“Mama, what’s this got to do with anything?” Bitty asked, more confused by the second.

“Whenever your daddy used to make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich – if I didn’t have time to make lunch, or if we were busy and hadn’t bought anything for dinner – he’d make it perfect. Now, most people would just make it the way they like, it’s just a sandwich, after all. But not your daddy. Without me ever asking, without me ever saying anything to him, he made my peanut butter and jelly sandwich perfect, every time.”

“I don’t understand,” Bitty said, and he truly didn’t. Coach had made him lunch every morning to take to school, and Bitty hadn’t ever given his sandwich a second thought.

“Your daddy is a man who cares, Dicky, he just doesn’t know how to show it,” Suzanne explained. “Sometimes, all he knows how to do is make a sandwich.”

*

Scot blinked at him. “A sandwich?” 

“A peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” Bitty repeated.

“A _perfect_ peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” Scot asked, incredulous.

“Yup.” 

Scot was silent for a beat, and then said, “Well that’s the bullshittiest bullshit I think I’ve ever heard.”

Bitty barked out a laugh and let his head loll back on the kitchen chair in relief. “And here I thought it was just me!”

“Oh, no,” Scot said from their seat across the table, impeccable slice of peach pie in front of them. “That is some Grade A bullshit right there. The man hasn’t spoken to you in months, but you’re supposed to forgive him because he makes a mean PB&J?” 

It felt good to laugh about it, and Bitty shook his head in disbelief. “I mean, my mama and I are normally on the same page about things, but I think she lost me on this one.”

“Crazy,” Scot agreed, taking another bit of pie. “This is unbelievable, by the way,” they said, gesturing with their fork. “Like, really, just stunningly good.”

Bitty blushed, and flapped a hand at Soct. “The peaches weren’t even that ripe.”

Scot snorted and pointed an accusatory fork at Bitty. “And it’s Canadians who can’t take a compliment, eh?”

“Oh, hush,” Bitty muttered, lifting a bite of his own slice. He had to admit, it was pretty good, even for unripe, imported peaches. He shut his eyes against the rush of cinnamon, butter, peach and tried not to think about his mama. “Are Eric and Sam coming to graduation?” Bitty asked. 

“They’ll be there,” Scot said around a mouthful. “Probably with bells on.”

Bitty tsked at them. “It’s good that they’re supportive!”

“Oh, for sure,” Scot agreed. “But they’re going to be meeting my professors, and I have a reputation to uphold.”

“A reputation as what?”

“Someone whose dads did not bring photographic evidence of their high school goth phase,” Scot said, and Bitty nearly choked on his pie.

“Ohmigosh.”

Scot’s eyes flew up to Bitty’s, and they pointed their fork at him again. “No.” 

“I’m calling Eric right now.”

“NO.” 

“Is there an album?”

“Put your phone away!”

“Do you think he’d let me make copies?”

Bitty looked up jokingly from his phone only to be tackled bodily by Scot, both of them landing on the linoleum with a thunk. Bitty’s phone flew out of his hands, and Scot scrabbled for it, managing to leverage their longer limbs to snatch it before Bitty. There was a momentary tussle, which ended with Scot sitting firmly on Bitty’s chest, systematically erasing both Eric and Sam’s phone numbers from his contact list.

“Scot,” Bitty wheezed, flailing vainly for his phone. “I can’t breathe.”

“Good,” Scot said, but then Bitty tangled his legs with Scot’s, tipping them over until they were lying next to Bitty in a heap, phone bouncing out of reach of both of them. 

“Ow,” Scot said, voice coming from somewhere in the vicinity of Bitty’s elbow.

“Serves you right,” Bitty said. 

“You’re the worst,” Scot retorted. 

“Am not.” 

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not-“

“Shut up!” a voice hollered from the living room, and Bitty realized that the rest of the gang must have made it home.

“Sorry!” He shouted, and an angry Ollie appeared in the doorway for a second before disappearing back into the bowels of the Haus.

Scot snickered into the tile, before rocking their head to the side to grin over at Bitty.

Bitty poked Scot in the forehead. “Quit looking at me like that.”           

Scot kept their face exactly the same. “Happy Birthday.” 

The smile came to Bitty’s face of its own accord. “Thanks, sugar.” 

Later, when the boys had finished off the last of the peach pie (one slice hidden away in the fridge for a post-birthday breakfast), Bitty laid in bed, Señor Bun tucked under his arm, and thought about something Scot had said to him before they’d left. 

“About your dad,” they’d started, already halfway out the door, eyes fixed firmly on the porch in front of them. “I’m not saying he’s not an asshole, but my grandmother told me something once, when she was still alive, about family. My mom was having a rough go of it, and my grandma-“ Scot ran a nervous hand through their hair, and continued. “Well, she said that when the people you love get lost, you don’t just leave them alone to wander. You draw them a map.”

Bitty hadn’t said anything, hadn’t know what to say. Scot almost never talked about their mom, or any family they’d had before Sam and Eric. But they hadn’t seemed to expect a response, smiling back at Bitty one last time before letting the porch door slap shut, footsteps thudding away into silence.

It was hours later, but Bitty couldn’t get it out of his head. He’d been waiting, all this time he’d been waiting for Coach to reach out to him. It had never occurred to him that Coach might be waiting for the same thing.

Sleep came slowly, thoughts of maps still swimming in his brain. But when it finally did, he dreamed of home, of backyard treasure and Georgia springs, peach sweet kisses and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter every Wednesday. Today's chapter brought to you by "Let Them Talk" by Hugh Laurie. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_aiW1Otnx_4
> 
> A perfectly made PB&J for everyone who left kudos and comments last week, unless you're allergic, in which case, I dunno, Sunbutter?
> 
> Want to share the perfect PB:J ratio? Leave a comment or find me on tumblr as achoo-gesundheit.


	11. Chapter 11

The Falconers lost a game, won a game, and then flew to Miami to crush the Panthers four to one. Jack called from the airport, all adrenaline and caffeine. “My flight’s not getting in until close to midnight, bud. Don’t wait up for me,” Jack said.

“I’ll do what I like,” Bitty replied haughtily, but his sentence trailed off into a forceful yawn. He quickly brought a hand to his mouth to stifle it, to no avail.

Jack chuckled. “Go to sleep. I’ll see you when I get there.”

Bitty smiled into the phone. “I’ll be here.”

And he had truly intended to stay awake, if only to prove a point, but his bed was soft, and warm, and while Jack had been playing his heart out in Miami, Bitty had spent his day packing up the Haus. He fell asleep on his to-do list, only stirring when he felt the mattress dip behind him.

Jack reached over to pry the notebook from under Bitty’s head, dropping a kiss on his shoulder as he went. Bitty took it as an opportunity to nuzzle further into his pillow, the cotton much more comfortable than the scribbled notebook paper he’d been using. He felt Jack slide under the covers and wrap an arm around him from behind, hooking his chin over Bitty’s shoulder.

“Hi,” Jack murmured, lips brushing against the shell of Bitty’s ear.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bitty said, sleep slurred and content. 

“Go back to sleep,” Jack whispered. 

“Mmm,” Bitty agreed, loving the way Jack’s breath slowed down to match Bitty’s own, the way he could feel the rise and fall of his chest against his back. He took a deep breath and hummed again. “You smell nice.”

Jack huffed out a laugh into his neck. “I took a shower. I smell clean.”

“It’s nice.”

“Go to sleep,” Jack repeated, and the firmness of the order was lost beneath the fond affection in his tone. 

Bitty snuggled backwards into Jack and sighed, serene. Sleep came easy.

*

Graduation morning dawned gray and chilly and too early, but Bitty woke, warm, to Jack’s arm draped over his waist, one leg slotted in between his own. Bitty blinked sleepily at him, and Jack smiled.

“Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” Bitty replied blearily.

Jack shifted so that his forehead rested against Bitty’s. “You made it,” he breathed.

“I made it,” Bitty agreed, and then crinkled his nose. “Do you smell something?”

“I promise I took a shower,” Jack said, but Bitty shook his head. By the time they made it downstairs to investigate, Jack could smell it too, the recognizable gas odor having permeated most of the Haus. Someone had left a burner on, they realized, all night, unlit. Bitty quickly turned it off, trying valiantly to reign in the panic, mind already seeing sparks, but Jack calmly began opening windows and shooed him back upstairs to get ready.

A frantic thirty minutes later and Bitty was ready to go, bowtie tied neatly and robes unzipped around his shoulders. He looked at himself in the mirror and couldn’t help but remember a graduation day not so long ago, one that had ended so much better that he could have expected, with Jack kissing him for the first time in a quiet and empty Haus. Keeping that thought firmly in his brain, Bitty clutched wildly at what optimism he had left. Anything was possible. It was going to be fine.

The Haus still smelled like gas as the crew gathered on the porch, but Bitty dutifully shut the windows again, checking the stove one last time to make sure it was off. Everyone had come back for graduation, Shitty, and Lardo, and Ransom, and Holster, and they, along with Jack, Bitty, Ollie, Wicks, and the Frogs hovered in front of the Haus, no one willing to take the first step off the porch. Finally, Jack, ever the captain, gave Bitty a little push.

“You’re going to be late,” he said, and, slowly, the herd began to move.

“Well,” Shitty said as they migrated towards the Lake Quad. “If we hear an explosion, at least we’ll know where it came from.”

“Just think, Bits – real fireworks for your graduation!” Holster chirped.

“It’s not a true celebration without something blowing up, after all,” Ransom chimed in.

“Hear, hear,” Lardo said cheerfully.

Bitty looked stricken, and Jack laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be fine. Nothing is going to explode.”

“It’s going to be fine,” Bitty repeated. “It’s going to be fine.”

And it was. Despite the clouds hovering heavy in the sky, the rain held out, and the ceremony went off without any signs that the Haus had gone up in flame. There was a phony, sentimental commencement speech, an attempt at an inspirational address from the valedictorian, and Bitty tossed his cap into the air with a sense of triumph he wasn’t quite expecting. He made it. 

After that it was individual department graduations and the senior luncheon and Bitty didn’t actually catch up with his parents or his friends until hours later, when the now graduated class began to mill on the Lake Quad for endless family photos and fond farewells. Bitty scanned the crowd anxiously. He spotted Jack first.

“I didn’t hear any explosions,” Jack said with a smirk, and Bitty swatted him on the shoulder.

“You, sir, are mean.”

“I’m mean?”

“Yes.” 

“How mean am I?” Jack said, stepping closer to loop his arms around Bitty’s waist. 

“So mean.”

“Really?” Jack said, leaning down.

“The meanest,” Bitty said, leaning up to meet him.

Their lips had barely touched before there was a small cough behind them. Suzanne waved, grinning, and Bitty jumped away from Jack.

“Mama!”

Suzanne rushed forward, embracing Bitty in a massive hug. “Oh, Dicky, I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m so glad you came,” Bitty said, face smushed into her shoulder. 

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Richard Bittle was standing awkwardly behind his wife, firmly avoiding eye contact with Jack.

“Junior,” he said curtly.

“Coach,” Bitty replied, tentative. 

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Bittle,” Jack said, and got a curt nod in response. Suzanne seemed to be ignoring Richard completely.

“Now where are all these friends of yours? I’m dying to meet them.”

“My mother has also been looking forward to meeting you, Mrs. Bittle,” Jack said, and Suzanne beamed.

“Oh, that would be wonderful! But really Jack, call me Suzanne.”

“Suzanne,” Jack said, smiling. “Let me see if I can track her down. Excuse me.”

Bitty watched him go, hating the panic blooming in his chest that reminded him he hadn’t been alone with his parents in close to a year. One of Suzanne’s hands found it’s way to Bitty’s cheek, and he turned to look at her, wet eyes meeting hers.

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” she said again, and Bitty let himself fall forward into her shoulder. He’d forgotten how good his Mama hugged.

Over her shoulder he could see Coach, hands in his pockets, weight shifting awkwardly from foot to foot in the grass. Bitty reluctantly pulled away from Suzanne.

“How was your trip?” Bitty asked tentatively, but before either of his parents had a chance to respond, someone barreled into Bitty, knocking him to the side and shaking the breath out of him. He recovered quickly though, and returned Scot’s hug with a fierce embrace of his own.

“We made it!” Scot said, high and gleeful. “We’re grown ups now!”

“Well, that’s debatable,” Eric said, coming up behind him, Sam at his shoulder.

“I’ll have you know, I am now a degreed individual!” Scot protested. “And how many degrees do you have, exactly?”

Eric clapped a hand to his heart in mock affront, and Sam rolled his eyes behind him. “You’re going to be insufferable now, aren’t you?” Eric said, mostly to himself.

“What do you mean _now?_ ” Sam added, which led to Scot leaping over to whack both of them on the shoulder. It was then that Bitty got a good look at their outfit underneath the graduation robe, but not, apparently, before his father did.

“Is that boy wearing a skirt?” Coach asked, just a little too loud, and silence descended where exuberance had only just been.

Eric’s eyes narrowed, Suzanne shot a meaningful look at Richard, and the panic in Bitty’s chest expanded and grew until words were tripping out of his mouth without thought.

“Mama, Coach, this is my friend Scot, and their parents, Eric and Sam. Scot’s a skater, just like me, and they’re Canadian, and Eric and Sam let me stay there for New Year’s, and did you know Eric used to play for the Leafs? Did I tell you he took us to a game? Oh! And Scot’s the one who’s moving to Cambridge with me and Shitty and Lardo, and oh, Lord, that reminds me I need to finish packing tonight, there’s still so much left to do in the Haus it’s just-“

A hand appeared heavy and grounding on Bitty’s shoulder, and forced an end to the ramble. Eric reached his other hand out to Suzanne, who took it with a smile.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Eric said, before extending the hand to Richard, who shook it gruffly. “It’s been a real joy to get to know your son.”

“Oh, and we’re so pleased to finally be meeting Scot!” Suzanne said, opening her arms to pull Scot in for a hug. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Scot returned the hug with ease, before turning to Richard. “Mr. Bittle,” they said, sticking out a hand, and Bitty held his breath.

Richard stared at Scot’s hand, nails freshly painted in a sparkling shade of lavender, and did not shake it.

Scot’s smile slipped.

“Hello, Bittle’s!” The booming voice of Bad Bob Zimmermann shattered the charged hush of the previous moment, and Bitty’s chest began to untighten slightly at the sight of Jack just yards away, and gaining. “And McNally!” Bob said, sharing a firm handshake with Eric. “Good to see you off the ice, old man.”

“You’re one to talk,” Eric said, grinning.

Pleasantries were exchanged all around, and Jack settled in the space next to Bitty like he’d never even left. “Things going okay?” He asked quietly, and Bitty shrugged, helpless to articulate the way his stomach had plummeted to his toes at the sight of Scot standing before his father. Jack’s arm snaked around his waist, and Bitty caught the edges of his mother’s smile from behind her hand. He smiled valiantly back.

The parents began to mingle in earnest, and Bitty let himself relax a fraction, trusting that discourse would remain civil, if not exactly lighthearted. Suzanne, Sam, and Alicia had struck up a conversation on what Bitty thought were the merits of tea, while Bob and Eric had found their way to Richard to, Bitty prayed, talk about sports, and absolutely nothing else. Their crowd only grew as Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, and Holster found them on the quad, and Bitty was actually starting to feel like things might just pass by without any major incidents.

Shitty came over to clap Bitty on the shoulder. “No explosions, then, I take it?”

Jack chuckled next to him, and Bitty rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to retort, when he heard a loud crack. By the time he’d whipped around to look, Richard had one knee on the ground, nose bleeding profusely. Next to him, Eric shook out his hand, knuckles smarting and eyes stormy.

The entire group seemed to move at once. Bitty rushed towards his father without thinking, Richard already rising to his feet, hands clenched in ready fists. Shitty had one strong arm wrapped around Jack’s chest, holding him back, and Bob’s firm grip was bearing down on Eric’s shoulder. Sam was shouting, Suzanne was glaring dangerously at Richard, and Scot was wide-eyed and shaking, lavender nails hidden where they’d shoved their hands into their armpits. 

Bitty stared at his father. There was blood running down his chin and staining his shirt, dark splotches marring the otherwise pristine white. Richard spat red into the grass. “Stay away from my son,” he growled, and Eric jerked forward as if to hit him again. Bob and Sam held him back.

“Your son?” Eric asked incredulously, still struggling towards him. “You mean the one you haven’t spoken to in months? The one who spent Christmas with Bob, and New Year’s with me, because his father wouldn’t have him in the house? That son?”

Sam had his hands wrapped desperately around Eric’s arm. “Eric, calm down.”

“The fuck I will!” Eric shouted. “This asshole thinks he can judge me, judge my kid, when he can’t even accept his own? Fuck that. He doesn’t deserve him.” 

Richard took a quick, angry step forward. “And you think I want him to turn out like- like that?” He said, jerking a hand at Scot, who was standing too small between Ransom and Holster, the two defensemen looking about ready to start throwing punches themselves. Eric was fuming, Sam’s eyes had narrowed dangerously, and Bob shot a frantic look at Alicia, who placed a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder, holding him in place.

“You don’t deserve him.” Eric spat the words again.

And Bitty had spent years being berated by well-meaning Bible thumping believers, confident in the living care of a higher grace. And he had watched Jack throw himself into one thing so hard and so entirely that sometimes he forgot to breathe. He’d seen Ransom pull all-nighters in pursuit of a graduated promise, watched Holster stay up with him, always defending, even off the ice. In fact, Bitty had watched this same fight play out at Halloween, his own foolhardy hockey team throwing hasty punches on his behalf. But despite all that, Bitty was sure he was witnessing devotion for the first time.

Rage that Bitty had kept a careful lid on since Halloween erupted out of him. His fingers wrapped tight and unflinching around his father’s wrist, and he squeezed. And for the first time that day, Richard actually looked at him.

“Enough,” Bitty said, quiet, angry, and sounding so much like his mama.

“Junior-“ Richard started, and Bitty squeezed harder.

“Don’t you dare say another word.”

Richard shut his mouth.

Bitty took a breath, focused on slow and steady words. “All my life, you’ve taught me about respect. It has to be earned. You respect me, I respect you.” Bitty’s eyes stayed on his father’s, unwavering. “If you can’t respect these people, you can’t respect me. If you can’t respect these people, who take care of me, and keep me safe, and love me, then you’re no longer entitled to my respect, let alone theirs. These are good people, and if you can’t see that, then we have nothing more to say to each other.” Bitty let his gaze flicker away then. Behind Richard, Suzanne had a hand pressed to her lips, eyes wet, and Bitty smiled weakly at her. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

Suzanne shook her head. “I love you, baby, no matter what." 

Bitty let go of Richard’s wrist. Around him, grips were slowly easing, hands dropped from arms and shoulders as the crackle in the air began to fizzle out. Bitty looked around at his people, his family, and willed the tears at the back of his eyes to stay put. “Sorry, y’all, I think we’re gonna have to cut this meet and greet short.” Bitty’s hands felt oddly useless now, and he squeezed them into fists at his sides, nothing but empty air to hold onto. “Y’all are all welcome back at the Haus later. And I promised these boys there’d be pie, so I best be getting back.” His voice was beginning to crack. He did not want to cry in the middle of Lake Quad on graduation day. He would not. _He would not_.

The empty air inside his fist was suddenly gone, replaced by a warm, familiar hand, and then he really didn’t have a choice. Tears slipped quickly and unrestricted down his cheeks. Jack tugged him close, and Bitty went, head meeting Jack’s shoulder and tears dripping onto Jack’s shirt, dark spots to match the ones on Richard’s.

“Well,” Shitty said abruptly from behind them. “So much for a day without explosions.”

*

The atmosphere at the Haus that night was subdued, to say the least. Bob and Alicia sprung for pizza, Eric and Sam brought beer, and Suzanne drove their rental car back to the hotel, a churlish and chastised Richard in the passenger seat. And since then, they’d all sort of sat around, at a loss for words. Bitty got the feeling there were several things Eric would like to say, but Scot was still shaky, and Sam was alternating between worried looks in their general direction and glaring at Eric.

Bitty must have apologized to Scot twenty times already, but every time he looked at them he felt the need to say it again. And he was just about to make it twenty-one when Lardo and Shitty came in from the kitchen, their faces steely. Jack extricated himself from Bitty, half in his lap, and stood up.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Not good,” Shitty replied.

Lardo held out her phone, video already queued up. 

Jack hit the play button, and white noise suddenly flooded the living room. Muffled voices talked over each other, excited and disbelieving, and then Bitty heard a distinctive crack for the second time that day.

 _“Holy shit!”_ one of the video voices yelled. Then, Eric’s voice crackled loud and tinny through the speakers.

_“Your son? You mean the one you haven’t-“_

“Turn it off,” Eric said, voice startlingly real outside the video.

Jack immediately hit pause.

“How many people have seen this?” Eric asked.

Lardo took her phone back. “It was posted on a student-run Facebook page a couple hours ago, but it’s already been shared a few thousand times.” 

“So it’ll be everywhere by morning,” Alicia said. 

“Probably,” Lardo agreed reluctantly.

“News media will get it not long after,” Bob added. He looked at Jack. “Let me make some calls.”

Jack nodded, and Bitty could see his knuckles turning white where they’d latched onto the fabric of his pants. Across the living room, Scot was staring, wide-eyed, at the phone in their hands, video playing again and again on an infinite loop.

“Hey,” Sam said, catching sight of the phone. “Scot, come on, you don’t need to watch that.” He gently pried it away, tucking it into his pocket. Next to him, Eric had his elbows on his knees, head bowed towards the floor, and Sam placed a gentle hand on the back of his neck. “It’ll be alright.”

Bitty wiped his sweaty palms on the sofa cushions and found his voice. “I’m sorry,” he said, wobbly, breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

“Bitty, no,” Jack started, sitting back down next to him, and Alicia joined in.

“You stop that right now, Eric Bittle,” she said firmly. “This is in no way your fault. Not at all, okay?”

Everyone else chimed in, agreeing.

“Okay?” Alicia said again, and Bitty nodded. “Okay. Jack, honey, why don’t you take Bitty upstairs? Bob and I will clean up down here, and we’ll see what this looks like in the morning. Eric,” she said, turning about-face to glare in his direction. “Bob’s making some calls now, and I’d suggest you do the same. It’s been a while since you’ve been in the news, but-“

“I remember,” Eric replied, barely audible.

Alicia gave him a brisk nod. “Good.”

Sam sighed. “We’re going to head back to the hotel, but we’ll keep you posted. Scot, can we take you home?”

Scot bit their lip, fingers twisting in their skirt. “Can I stay with you?” they asked quietly.

Bitty could see Sam visibly deflating, hard edges softening and blurring into something fuzzy and warm, and Scot leaned into it. “Of course,” Sam whispered, running a hand over Scot’s curls. “Get your stuff, alright?”

Scot nodded, and began gathering the pieces of their outfit that had been strewn around the living room. Shoes here, robe there, mortarboard thrown in a pile with the rest. Bitty watched for a moment, but then Jack was herding him off the sofa and up the stairs, silencing his protests about dirty kitchens and seeing people out and had he mentioned how sorry he was? Jack shushed him. Bitty let him strip off the dress shirt he was still wearing, the nice blue slacks he’d bought just for today, followed by socks and undershirts until Bitty was standing in his boxers, realizing how absolutely exhausted he actually was. Jack pulled one of his own sweatshirts out of his duffel bag and slipped it over Bitty’s head, guiding his arms into the sleeves one at a time. He gave Bitty a gentle shove towards the bed, and Bitty sat, waiting for Jack to undress himself and join him. And he did, warm and solid and surrounding, and Bitty curled up in that comfort, let it sink into his bones, and tried not to think about what morning might bring.

* 

Morning, of course, brought goodbyes. Bitty accepted a lingering kiss and a promise that Jack would call as soon as he landed in Miami again, and then Bitty was shooing him out the door, braver now, at least, in the light of a new day. He watched Jack climb into a taxi, scrubbed a hand through his hair, and went to find his phone. No point in delaying the inevitable.

There were seventeen new voicemails and forty-three texts waiting for him. Sighing, Bitty set to work. Most of the texts were from the team, the video of yesterday’s kerfuffle having reached most of Samwell the night before. Bitty sent a reassuring message to the group chat. There was nothing any of them could do at this point, anyway. He put the voicemails on speaker, one from Chowder, Nursey, Dex, and then Bob (Alicia cutting in halfway through) letting Bitty know that they were doing everything they could to wrangle the press. Bitty was just pulling on a clean pair of socks when George’s voice filtered out from his speakers.

_“Hey, Bitty. Jack gave me a heads up about what happened, because it’s definitely going to come up in today’s postgame press. The team’s all been briefed, though, and the official Falconer’s stance is no comment. We’ve got your back, alright? This’ll blow over before you know it. And hey! Congratulations, graduate!”_

There was a beep, and his phone announced the next message, George’s voice replaced with Tater’s.

_“Itty Bitty! I have been hearing of your troubles. Father’s are often causing them, yes? My father too, he is not always pleasant man. Like bear. But I am big like bear now, too. If you is needing me to fight anyone, I’m ready! Wishing you all the college congratualtions!”_

Beep. 

_“Hey, kid, it’s Marty. Don’t sweat this, okay? Jack’ll be fine, and everything’ll be back on hockey in no time. We’re here for you, everyone here at the Falconers, so if you ever need anything, you just give us a shout. You’re family now. Hang in there, kid.”_

Beep.

_“Bitty, I swear to God, if anyone even looks at you funny you let me know and I will kick the shit out of them, I’m not kidding. I will put down this baby – ¡Manuel! ¿Dónde están mis llaves? – and find these fuckers. Who the fuck records other families at graduation? – No, Manuel, ‘stoy hablando con Bitty. ¡No, no me voy a calmar! ¡Dame mis llaves! – Bitty I gotta go – Manuel!_

Tania’s voice cut off abruptly, and Bitty pressed a shaking hand to his forehead in either amusement or horror.

His phone beeped again, and the next voicemail started playing.

_“Dicky, baby, I don’t wanna upset you, but something happened-“_

“Shit!” Bitty snatched up his phone, ending the playback and jamming his thumb down on speed-dial. It only rang once before Suzanne answered.

“Baby-“

“Mama, I am so sorry!” Bitty said in a rush. “I should have called you last night, but everything happened so fast and I was so tired and Bob said he would handle it and-“

“Hush, you!” Suzanne interrupted. “This is not your fault, alright? It’s fine.”

“Mama…”

“It’s on the local news,” Suzanne said. “I went down to get a cup of coffee this morning and it was playing on the TV in the lobby.”

Bitty fell heavily into his desk chair. “Shit.”

“You can say that again,” Suzanne agreed. And it was that, more than anything, that made the laughter, hysterical and unexpected, bubble up in Bitty’s chest.

“Oh my gosh,” Bitty said, giggling. “Oh my gosh.”

“You always did like going out with a bang,” Suzanne said lightly, and Bitty laughed harder, unable to stop. What a turn his life had taken. But then – “Your father’s sulking,” Suzanne said abruptly, and Bitty’s giggles petered out. “They’re not saying very nice things about him.”

 _Good_ , Bitty wanted to say, the thought popping unbidden into his head. But he forced it down, let it melt back into the rage still stuck beneath his skin, and asked, “How’s his face?”

“Oh he looks a right mess,” Suzanne said, almost cheery. “Like a scowling raccoon.”

Bitty did not laugh, bit his lip to keep from doing so.

“Serves him right, the great oaf,” Suzanne added, and Bitty couldn’t help it, barking out a laugh. “They can say what they want about him. Might teach him a lesson. But what about you, baby?”

Bitty sighed. “I haven’t even turned on a TV yet, Mama. I don’t know.”

“Why were they filming anyway? They couldn’t have known there’d be a fight.”

“I’m sure they didn’t. But there were three professional hockey players hanging out on Lake Quad, and probably some kids just thought it’d be cool to be in a video near Eric McNally and the Zimmermann’s.” Bitty could hear the video in his head, blaring out of Lardo’s phone. “They seemed just as surprised when it happened.”

“Well,” Suzanne replied. “Still.”

And Bitty knew what she meant. “I should probably go,” he said, thinking of the phone calls he needed to make, the people he needed to check on. “I’ll see you tonight, though, okay?”

“You got it, baby. And if there’s anything you need, you just say so, okay?”

Bitty smiled. “I will. Thanks, Mama. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

As soon as the call was ended Bitty opened his laptop. He had bookmarked all the local news stations ages ago so he could keep tabs on Samwell hockey reports, and he pulled them up one by one, finding what he was looking for on the first one near the middle of the page.

_Scuffle at Samwell Sullies Graduation Day: A fist fight involving former NHL star Eric McNally erupted on the Lake Quad of Samwell University yesterday afternoon, as parents and graduates gathered after the ceremonies. Video recorded at the scene shows McNally reacting poorly to a comment by another parent, resulting in punches being thrown. The identity of that parent is still unknown, however several comments on the Samwell community group where the video was posted suggest the altercation was a result of homophobic language-_

Bitty stopped reading and clicked to another tab, scrolling down until he found the story. A video started playing as soon as the page opened.

_“In local graduation news, we have a video here from Samwell University where three NHL players, including current Stanley Cup contender Jack Zimmermann, were involved in a fist-fight over what we’re being led to believe was homophobic behavior of another parent. It’s no secret that Zimmermann still has friends at Samwell, he’s been spotted at hockey games all season, but the suspected cause of this outburst has certainly led to some serious speculation. Is there more to Jack Zimmermann than meets the eye?”_

Something ugly began twisting in Bitty’s stomach. He closed the tab and opened another, the story there nearly identical to the first two. Bitty knew how this worked. They’d have all day to call around, get some sources, figure stuff out, and by the time the nightly news started to roll the morning’s speculation would have evolved into something else entirely. It was only a matter of time before the sports channels picked it up. Bitty shut his laptop with a crack. He had no idea how to stop this train now that it’d started.

There was a knock on the door, and then Lardo was poking her head inside. “Morning,” she said, brandishing a cup of coffee in his direction.

“Bless you,” Bitty said, and went to grab the cup.

Lardo stepped all the way inside and handed him the coffee, along with a plate heaped high with fruit and bacon and bagels. “Bob and Alicia have gathered the war council downstairs. They brought sustenance.”

“War council?” Bitty said around a mouthful of bagel. 

Lardo plopped down on the bed and nodded. “Sam’s here, and some lady who I think is Jack’s publicist, and George is on speaker phone. Oh,” she added. “And Shitty’s there.”

“Oh, heavens.”

“I actually think he might be helping?” Lardo shrugged. “Pretty sure Jack asked him to sit in before he left.”

There was a fleeting moment of hurt at that, that Jack hadn’t asked Bitty, but Lardo caught it and gave him a light smack on the shoulder.

“Cut it out,” she chastised. “Shitty’s speaking for Jack so you can speak for you.”

Bitty gulped down a grape. “They want me on the war council?” It came out slightly squeaky and sounding very much like a line out of a teen dream comedy, and Bitty winced.

Lardo kindly stifled a snicker, and nodded. “Whenever you’re ready, Cap.”

* 

At no point did Bitty feel ready. While most college graduates presumably spent their first school-free day of adulthood lazy and hung-over, Bitty spent it chugging coffee by the pint and coming face to face for the first time in a while with the hard realities of dating an openly gay professional hockey player. It was nothing he and Jack hadn’t talked about before, but what before had been a private, intimate discussion was now increasingly public and analytical, sounding altogether more like a chess match than a relationship. Jack was meant to prevaricate at today’s post-game press, downplay the fight, and hopefully the story would die down on its own. Then, when the season ended, and everyone could forget about hockey for the summer, Jack would make his own announcement. It had always been the plan, had been discussed and re-discussed a hundred times over the last two years. Bitty watched George pencil it in her planner though, and felt like the floor was spinning underneath him.

As far as immediate actions went, George and the Falconers PR team would handle Jack’s side of the story, and Bob would release a statement later that day about his own involvement in the scuffle, which had been minimal. Which left Eric. When asked about his whereabouts, Sam explained that he’d taken Scot out for the day.

“They both needed a break,” Sam said quietly, and everyone at the table nodded in understanding.

Once the council had been dismissed (by Alicia, their de-facto leader), Shitty grabbed Bitty and Lardo and drove them around the city looking at apartments. It was a welcome distraction.

“And here,” Shitty said, pulling up to a shabby duplex somewhere in Watertown several hours and seven apartments later, “we have a lovely mustard number, impressive in size if not in beauty.”

Which was an understatement. The front walkway was overgrown, it was missing several shutters, and the porch was in worse shape than the Haus. But it had a (cracked) driveway and a big backyard, and Lardo hummed thoughtfully next to Bitty as they made their way to the front door. A haggard looking landlord greeted them on the porch, Irish brogue mellowed slightly from years in the US, and showed them inside. To be fair, they had seen worse. There were hardwood floors and high ceilings, and every room had windows. But it was the kitchen that did it for Bitty. Newly renovated and bright, what it lacked in counter space it made up for in cabinets. Bitty was already picturing improvements – a temporary kitchen island, a pot rack above the stove – when the landlord showed them the walk-in pantry. Bitty’s heart actually fluttered in his chest.

“Well,” Lardo said, peeking out onto the back porch. “Of what we’ve seen so far, I’d say it’s either this one or the one in Medford.” 

“I refuse to live in fucking Medford,” Shitty said, opening a cabinet at random to look inside.

“You brought us there,” Lardo pointed out.

“Yeah, and then I brought you away after I was nearly decapitated by a Frisbee while crossing the street.”

“They did say duck.”

“I go to Harvard,” Shitty said, with all the pretension he could muster. “I will not sully my law student loafers by traipsing across unhallowed, Tufts-ridden ground.”

“I know for a fact you bought those loafers in the bargain bin at The Garment District. They came pre-sullied.”

Shitty gasped and pointed an accusing finger at Lardo. “Okay, first of all? How dare you.”

“Whaddya say, ‘den?” Shitty’s inevitable tirade about the benefits of shopping secondhand was cut off by the return of the landlord. “Cos I got another group comin’ in at tree.”

Shitty looked at Lardo, who shrugged, then Bitty, who was stroking a granite countertop lovingly, and grinned. “I think we’ll take it.” 

They got back to the Haus around four o’clock, and the normally deserted post-graduation street was lined with cars.

“I guess everyone is still here,” Lardo said, kicking the car door closed behind her.

Bitty noticed his mother’s minivan parked across the street, and tried to take a deep, calming breath. It wasn’t like things could get much worse, anyway.

They heard the shouting before they’d even made it up the porch.

“What in God’s name were you thinking?”

“I thought this was what you wanted!”

Eyes wide, Bitty, Lardo, and Shitty tiptoed their way into the Haus. Bob, Alicia, Suzanne, and Richard were all sitting in the living room, matching expressions of incredulity on their face. Scot was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, waching Sam and Eric have it out.

“What I wanted?” Sam asked.

“For years you’ve been telling me I should!” Eric yelled back.

Sam threw his hands in the air. “Not the day after you start a fist-fight at Scot’s graduation, though! Not in the middle of the fucking Cup!”

“Since when have you cared about hockey?”

“I don’t give two shits about hockey!” Sam shouted. “I care about our kid, and his- shit. _Their_ friends, one of which is playing one of the biggest games of his life tonight!”

Bitty whirled around to the figures scattered in the living room. “What happened?” he whispered to Suzanne. She pointed wordlessly to the television set, which Bitty just noticed was tuned to ESPN, sound off, subtitles on.

“ _We have even more unexpected news coming out of the fight yesterday at Samwell University involving three NHL players, which is that Eric McNally, former star of the Toronto Maple Leafs, has just publicly come out as gay._

_That’s right, Brian. In a shocking press conference just an hour ago, McNally told reporters from ESPN that he’s been in a committed relationship with another man for over fifteen years. This makes him the first NHL player, current or retired, to ever publicly come out._

_So what has this got to do with yesterday’s fight, you ask? Well as it turns out, not only is McNally gay, he’s got a kid, one who happened to be graduating from Samwell University yesterday afternoon. McNally explains, ‘I’ve been stepping in front of bullies for my kid since they were twelve years old. I’m not about to stop now.’ An admirable and understandable statement, I’m sure, for many of us parents. Here’s a little more of that press conference:”_

Bitty watched in stunned silence as the footage cut to Eric behind a press podium, flashbulbs making his skin pale and splotchy on the TV screen. 

“ _Look, I’ve been taking crap from guys like this since I was a kid. Calling each other sissies, tearing them down for being less of a man. That’s the culture hockey players grow up in, that’s the culture I grew up in, and I’ve spent every day since then trying to teach my kid something different.”_ There was a pause. “ _Look, everyone who ever watched me play hockey knows I’m a fighter. That’s the player I was groomed to be, that’s my nature. But I remembered today, after I embarrassed myself, let down my partner, and scared the shit out of my kid, that there are better ways to fight. That’s what I’m trying to do here today.”_

The television cut back to the ESPN news desk.

“ _McNally is asking for fans and players to donate to the You Can Play Project, promising to match all contributions made until the end of the Stanley Cup finals. More information can be found on our website-“_

Bitty let his eyes blink away from the screen. Shitty and Lardo were looking as dumbfounded as he did. The shouting in the kitchen hadn’t slowed down.

“Did it not even occur to you that you might want to talk to your family first?” Sam was saying.

“Scot was totally on board!” 

“Great for Scot!” Sam shouted. “What about me? Did I not deserve to know you were going to throw us even further into a media storm?” 

“I thought you’d be supportive of this!” 

“Don’t you dare make me the villain in this.”

“This isn’t about sides, Sam! Can’t you see that?” Eric ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “This is about Scot, and- and Bitty, and Jack, and how they’re all living inside a closet the fucking NHL helped build for them!”

“That is not your fight, Eric.” 

“Of course it is!”

“Why?” Sam asked. “You’re retired, you haven’t played in years, why does this have to be your fight?”

“Because I fucking hammered in the nails, Sam!”

Sam took an actual, startled step back. “What?”

Eric shook his head. “I’m as much to blame for that closet door as anyone.”

Sam opened and closed his mouth, words not coming.

“I’m trying to make it right.”

A rough sigh staggered out of Sam’s chest. “Fuck you for making me love you when I’m pissed at you.”

Eric choked out a laugh, and Sam gathered him up in his arms, planting a firm kiss on his lips.

“You’re a moron,” Sam said, “and I’m still mad at you.”

“Fair enough,” Eric agreed, arms winding around Sam’s waist to clutch at the back of his shirt. He rested his head on Sam’s shoulder and caught sight of Scot in the doorway, Bitty behind them. Eric shut his eyes in defeat. “We have an audience, by the way.”

Sam turned to look over Eric’s head, and sighed. “So the two of you had quite the adventure today, then, huh?”

Scot nodded sheepishly. 

“C’mere,” Sam said, holding out a hand, and Scot shuffled over to let themself be pulled into a hug.

Bitty turned away, back to the living room, where news footage was still flickering on the television, his father watching with rapt attention as his character was smeared across ESPN. Bitty was fairly certain his own family drama would not be solved with a spontaneous press conference and a group hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter every Wednesday. Today's chapter brought to you by "Bump in the Night" by Rabbit!
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zjnJbz1i77o
> 
> Thanks to everyone who sent me their PB&J formulas last week. I was (and am) genuinely delighted by all of you. Group hug. 
> 
> Thoughts to share? Questions to ask? Praise to bestow? Leave a comment, or find me on tumblr as achoo-gesundheit.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This is it my lovelies. I hope you're all satisfied with where I've left you. 
> 
> Sidenote: believe it or not, this chapter was written before the most recent comic update. Any overlap in plot should be considered a small miracle. :)

In a sixth game upset in Miami, the Falconers clinched a spot in the finals, beating the Panthers 2-1. They’d play the Aces for the Cup. The day before Game One, Jack was shaking apart in Bitty’s arms.

“Shh, sweetheart, shh, I’ve got you.” Bitty pressed himself closer to Jack, hands warm and solid on the back of his neck, willing his own body to absorb the tremors. “Should I call someone?”

“Don’t-“ Jack said immediately, arms tightening around Bitty. “Please don’t leave.”

“Okay,” Bitty said. He let his forehead rest against Jack’s. “Okay, I’m not going anywhere, baby.”

Jack did calm down eventually, shakes receding, and Bitty did call someone, let Bob and Alicia know what was going on. They’d stayed nearby after graduation, taking the time to visit some old friends in Boston. Bitty’s parents were sticking around as well, something he hadn’t quite prepared for.

“What time do you need to be at the rink tomorrow?” Bitty asked, handing Jack a plate of food.

“Around noon,” Jack said. He poked at his pasta until Bitty glared gently at him, and he took a careful bite. “Was going to try to go for a run tomorrow morning, though.”

Bitty fixed a plate for himself and sat down next to Jack on the sofa. He was normally very particular about eating dinner at the table, but tonight he was making an exception. “How about you let yourself sleep a little, and then we can both go for a run a little later?”

Jack blinked down at his pasta.

“That’s what we’re going to do, okay?” Bitty reached over to rest a hand on Jack’s knee, and he nodded. “Okay,” Bitty said. “It’s going to be okay.” 

*

The Falconers lost their first two games, and Bitty spent every free moment worrying about Jack. Alicia reassured him over and over that Jack was going to be fine, that he had an expansive support system both inside and outside of the Falconers that would make sure he’d be okay, but Bitty couldn’t help it. He watched the games from the family box and wrung his hands to red.

Suzanne and Richard had come down from Boston for Game Two, and Bitty sat with them in nervous silence, getting up only occasionally to pace.

“Dicky, sit down,” Suzanne chided, pulling him back into his seat. “It’s just a game.”

And it was, Bitty knew, just a game. But it was a game that meant everything to Jack, not to mention every game he played was one game closer to the post-cup press conference they’d been planning for weeks. In the wake of Eric’s announcement, the Stanley Cup press coverage had been interwoven with interviews and opinions by every Tom, Dick, and Harry in and out of the NHL. Speculation about Jack’s involvement, as well as about the “mystery parent” who provoked the punch, had only gotten worse. Bitty had never seen his father so quiet in his life, and he’d never been what you’d call loud.

Jack left for Las Vegas on a Tuesday, and Bitty busied himself with anything and everything that wasn’t hockey. Which in this case meant a near obsessive dedication to unpacking and decorating the new Watertown house, which Shitty had already affectionately named Margot. By Game Four the Falcs had only won one game, and were headed home with what Bitty knew must be an unimaginable level of anxious anticipation. He couldn’t bring himself to go to the game that night, instead spent the entire evening pacing a hole in his new living room, his father sitting stoically on the sofa behind him (Suzanne had been unwilling to miss an opportunity to see another Stanley Cup game). But the Falcs won, and then they went to Las Vegas and won another, and suddenly it was anyone’s Cup again.

When Jack made it home from the airport that night, it was to find Bitty shaking in his kitchen, cookie dough half scooped and forgotten on the counter.

“Bits,” Jack said softly, and reached out a hand. He pulled Bitty to bed and they shook themselves to sleep, hands wild and unsteady on each other’s bodies.

Bitty did not want to go to the game.

“You didn’t start winning until I stopped coming!” he said, slightly frenzied.

“I have never been superstitious,” Jack said, squeezing his hand around Bitty’s. “And I don’t plan to start now. I want you there.”

And how could Bitty say no to that?

So they all went, Bitty and his parents, Bob, Alicia, Sam, Scot, and even Eric, who’d been staying away in an effort to dampen the sudden media interest in his life. When Bob gave him a questioning look, Eric’s eyes were steely. “Jack asked me to be here, so I came.”

It was, without a doubt, the worst hockey watching experience of Bitty’s life.

Everyone around him was shouting – encouragement, suggestions, and indignant accusations when they disagreed with a call. Bitty, normally a more-than-engaged viewer, could not seem to get any words out. His mother kept offering to get him a drink, but Bitty did not think being drunk would at all help this situation, so he let Suzanne shove a ginger ale in his hand instead.

By the start of the third period, the game was tied 2-2. Bitty could not breathe. It was easily the longest twenty minutes of his life. And at minute eighteen, he watched in paralyzed disbelief as Jack received a beautiful pass from Marty, and heard the slap of Jack’s stick off the puck, watched as it shot past the goalie’s left ear to bring the score 3-2. The stadium erupted. The crowd spent the last two minutes of the game on their feet, and when the final buzzer sounded, Bitty stood up with them, hands clasped to his mouth, tears streaming down his cheeks. Bob and Alicia were bellowing behind him, Scot had Sam wrapped in a massive hug, and Bitty turned to Eric, then Suzanne, matching looks of awe on all of their faces.

Down on the ice, Jack was in the middle of a quickly growing Falconer’s mosh pit. Bitty watched as his jersey disappeared beneath a pile of hockey players, held his breath until Jack finally reemerged to beam up at the family box. The vice around his lungs suddenly loosened, and Bitty let out a barking, hysterical laugh, beaming right back at him.

Twenty minutes later, Bitty got to watch Jack take the cup from Thirdy. He skated around with it over his head, stopping right in front of the family box to give it a kiss. Bitty thought his heart was going to beat right out of his chest. By the time they let family come down to the ice, Bitty was sure it already had, because there was Jack, sweaty and exuberant and happier than he’d seen him in weeks, and Bitty wobbled unsteadily on his feet. It only took Jack a second to spot them, and Bitty had a moment to see something happen on his face before he was racing over and scooping Bitty up into his arms.

There was a hot breath against Bitty’s ear. “I know we said-“ Jack started, breathing hard. “I want to-“ He couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t seem to find a way to ask, but Bitty just laughed.

“Anything you want, sweetheart.”

Jack set Bitty back on his feet, and there, on home ice, in the presence of God, the Falconers, and over a dozen cameras, kissed him.

Behind him, Bitty could hear clapping, could hear Eric whistling, Scot cheering, the overeager shutter snaps of disbelieving photographers, and Bitty had never cared less about anything in his life.

Jack pulled back, grinning. “Hi,” he said.

Bitty could not contain himself. “Oh my gosh!” he screamed, hand flying up to cover his mouth. “Oh my gosh!” he said again against his palm. 

Jack just laughed and laughed, his steady hands tangled up in Bitty’s.

*

An hour later and the internet was losing its mind. Bitty’s phone was ringing off the hook, and Jack eventually took it away from him, but not before he’d gotten a call from every member of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team, past and present. The best message, however, came from Brooke, a short little text that had Bitty blushing furiously and burying his face in Jack’s shoulder.

 _Aw yiss. Never been more proud, Bitty Baby._ This was followed by a string of eggplant emojis and a winky face.

Bitty quickly texted back a scandalized reply, and received _your wedding gift is in the mail_ in response, along with a link to a hockey stick shaped dildo. Bitty just yelled, throwing his phone at Jack, who giggled and turned it off, sliding it into his coat pocket.

The celebration seemed like it would never end. They made an appearance at the after-party, then went back to Jack’s apartment where the party continued on into the night, the last of the guests not leaving until close to two in the morning. Bob gave Jack a final hug before he left, tears in his eyes mostly from pride but also probably from the seven beers he’d had, and then it was just the two of them.

Jack had to pull Bitty out of the kitchen. “We can clean up tomorrow, come on.”

“Just let me put the rest of the food away,” Bitty said, sentence cracking on a yawn.

“Bits,” Jack said, eyes heavy, and Bitty caved.

They crashed into bed together, too tired to do anything but press against each other, lips chasing cheeks and chins and mouths, legs mixed up and twisted in the sheets.

“We won the Cup,” Jack said, quiet against Bitty’s skin, like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

“You did,” Bitty said, smiling.

“And I kissed you.”

Bitty buried his growing grin in Jack’s neck. “You did.”

“I’m out,” Jack said, and Bitty listened for regret, for worry, for anything at all, and found nothing but joy in Jack’s voice.

“You are,” Bitty said, breathless and so, so in love with this hockey-playing fool.

“We should check-“ Jack started, but Bitty cut him off with a kiss.

“Let’s just have this,” Bitty said. “Let’s keep tonight. We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Jack agreed. “Over breakfast.”

Bitty let his head rest against Jack’s chest, and let the rise and fall of level breath lull him to sleep. “Deal.” 

*

“ _Jack Zimmermann, alternate captain of the newly crowned Stanley Cup Champions, the Providence Falconers, made history last night by kissing his boyfriend on the ice after the trophy ceremony. This, of course, comes in the wake of Eric McNally coming out as gay just weeks ago after a fight at Samwell University’s graduation left us all with more questions than answers. Have some things started to clear up a little for us, John?_

_I think so, Brian. We’ve confirmed Zimmermann’s boyfriend to be former Samwell teammate Eric Bittle, who graduated along with McNally’s son back in May._

_Which explains why all the Zimmermann’s were there._

_Right. The fight apparently broke out after Bittle’s father, there visiting from Georgia made some… unsavory remarks about McNally’s son._

_Let’s be forthright about this now, John. By unsavory, you mean homophobic._

_Well, the nature of the comments has never been made explicitly clear-_

_We’ve had two players come out as gay in the aftermath of this thing, and you’re going to pretend it’s not about anybody being gay? Come on now. McNally made the point in his statement to the press, and I’m gonna go ahead and make it again – we’ve clearly got a culture here that’s keeping players like Zimmermann, top scorer for the Falcs two seasons in a row, I might add, living in fear of what being an out, gay player might mean. It’s 2017, for Pete’s sake, even football beat us to this punch._

_What are you saying here, Brian?_

_That there’s a reason it’s taken hockey this long to catch up. Mr. Zimmermann, if you’re watching this, I applaud you sir. And to all the players and the coaches and the managers out there in the NHL, I hope this might be the wake-up call we’ve all been waiting for.”_

* 

Margot was a work in progress. Bitty, despite his frantic distraction-unpacking, had made very little actual progress in making her livable. Shitty’s lease wasn’t up until the end of August, and Scot was staying in Toronto for a little while to spend some quality time with Sam and Eric, so it was just Bitty and Lardo, bumming around in Watertown. Suzanne had gone home after the Cup, had been away from work long enough, but the school year was over for Richard, and he’d taken one look at the sad state of Margot and offered to stay. No one was more surprised than Bitty. But Scot’s words about maps came back to him suddenly, and so he and Lardo blew up an air mattress in Shitty’s empty room, and Richard stayed.

It turned out to be a blessing. As soon as Bitty and Lardo started properly living there, they began to realize what a mess it genuinely was. There was no hot water in the shower because the handle had been installed incorrectly, every time you ran the dishwasher the spraying arm would fly off and rattle around, and only one of the bedrooms (Lardo’s) had any closets at all. This all led to a particularly ridiculous trip to Home Depot, whereupon they immediately lost Lardo somewhere in the lighting section, and Bitty and Richard spent an inordinate amount of time selecting a suitable wardrobe. They left with five new sconces and a guaranteed easy-to-assemble piece of furniture that Richard assured Bitty would be done in no time.

It took them three hours.

“It would have been faster if you had a power drill,” Richard said after they’d wrangled it into place against Bitty’s wall.

Bitty scoffed. “Well, excuse me for leaving my power tools in my other pants.”

Richard’s mouth twitched up at the corners, more of a smile than Bitty had seen in a long time. He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost eight. We should eat something.”

“I’m pretty sure there is nothing even remotely edible in this house.”

“I’m sure I can find something,” Richard said, dusting his hands off on his pants. “Sit tight for a second.”

And Bitty did, feeling suddenly very young. It’d been a long time since his father had made him anything. Tonight he got furniture and dinner. He wasn’t sure what to make of all that.

After checking all his messages and confirming with Tania that yes, he was coming back to work tomorrow, and no, he was not bringing Jack, and absolutely not, she could not start baking their wedding cake, Bitty wandered out into the kitchen. Richard was there at the counter, a few slices of week old bread on a paper towel, peanut butter open and jam waiting its turn. When he caught sight of Bitty, he shrugged. “Best I could find.”

Bitty sat down on one of the spray painted folding chairs Lardo had set up in the kitchen, and Richard handed him a sandwich.

“We’ll go shopping tomorrow,” he said, tucking in to a sandwich of his own.

Bitty nodded, and took a small bite. It was, realistically, one of the worst sandwiches he had eaten in his life. And it was perfect. “Thank you,” Bitty said, and was rewarded with another almost-smile.

They ate together in comfortable silence, new walls and fresh space around them, and it wasn’t quite an apology, and Bitty wasn’t ready to forgive him, but it was a start. 

*

The summer went by fast, the way it hadn’t in a long time. Scot moved to Watertown at the beginning of July and found a job working as a barista at one of Pépère’s newest locations (Bitty had put in a good word for them with Angelique). There was a kind of magic living in the city. Even though he’d been so close for so many years, Bitty had never really had the time to just explore, but he spent the summer doing just that. Scot became obsessed with Groupon, and every weekend they tried something new, whether it was canoeing on the Charles (a disaster that could have been avoided if either of them had remembered that canoes travel on water), or half-off an extravagant dinner at an Italian restaurant in the North End (Scot spent the entire evening flirting with the waiter and scored them free glasses of limoncello with their dessert). Bitty spent nearly all of his days off in Providence with Jack, and sometimes they never even left the apartment. Bitty had no plans, no deadlines, and no secrets, and all in all, life had never been sweeter.

Shitty moved in on the first of September, and Margot’s decibel level rose dramatically. Ransom and Holster started coming over pretty regularly, and it was not long before a ping-pong table was installed in the basement. Lardo defended her title with gusto.

Perhaps most importantly, Bitty did not go back to Georgia. He missed the annual Madison Fourth of July fireworks to climb the biggest hill in Arlington Heights, Boston skyline spread out in front of him, Jack’s solid arms around his waist. Brooke texted him on the first day of camp to say _Good riddance_ , and Bitty sent her back a heart emoji, because he didn’t have the words to say the thank you she deserved. He did not see his parents for the rest of the summer, but he had already booked a plane ticket home for Thanksgiving, and Suzanne and Richard had already agreed to spend Christmas in Montreal. There were still things to work out. There were still things to learn. But Bitty was sick of ignorance, and he was pretty sure his father was too.

Things slowed down in September. Shitty was back at Harvard, Lardo was starting an MFA, and Bitty was working harder than ever as Pépère prepared for a busy holiday season. But there was a comfortable normality to this life that Bitty had been missing. He got home from working a particularly grueling overnight shift (a favor for Pete, whose mother was in town) to find an oversized envelope stuffed in their mailbox. They almost never got mail, but there, on the front, was Bitty’s name, penned in his mother’s loopy handwriting. Bitty tore the envelope open only to find two more inside, one addressed to him and one to Scot, with a note that explained they were a _very belated Graduation gift, one I completely forgot to give during all the hullabaloo in May. So proud of you both._ Bitty smiled, tucking them under his arm.

He found Scot on the roof outside their bedroom, blanket wrapped around their shoulders, feet bare against the shingles. Bitty climbed out the window next to them.

“Here,” Bitty said, handing Scot an envelope. “A present from my mom.”

Scot squealed in delight. “For what?”

“Graduation,” Bitty explained. “They’re a little late.”

“A present is a present,” Scot said, and ripped into their gift.

Bitty opened his neatly, peeking inside and pulling out a pair of sunglasses, black and shiny with all the colors of the rainbow printed on the arm. He looked over to see that Scot had an identical pair, and had already put them on.

“These are amazing,” they said emphatically.

Bitty put his on too, laughing at the pair of them. The sun had only just begun to crest over the horizon, and here they were in rainbow shades. He pulled out the card left behind in the envelope. _Because the future looks bright_ , it said in familiar script.

Scot showed him their own card, same message, same writing, and Bitty smiled. 

“Sam says endings happen slowly,” Scot said, leaning back on their hands to watch the sun creep further up into the sky. “That it’s not just WHAM- one moment and then it’s over.” They slid further back until they were laying down, head thunking onto the roofing. “But I dunno, this sure feels like a moment to me.”

Bitty laid down next to them, and Scot shifted over slightly so they could share the blanket. “Sometimes endings are good, though. Means something’s starting.”

Scot murmured in agreement. 

They watched the sun crest over the roof lines of their neighbor’s houses, casting dawn light to reflect off the sunglasses they were both still wearing.

“Do you believe in miracles?” Scot asked suddenly.

Bitty snorted. “Honey, I stopped putting much stock in Church talk a long time ago.”

Scot flapped a hand at him. “No, no, not like, sent down from God kinda miracles. More like… small miracles.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“You know,” Scot said. “Like… when you forget to set your alarm, but you still wake up on time. Oh! Or like folding a fitted sheet.”

Bitty laughed. “I’m not sure I’d call those miracles.”

Scot shrugged. “What else would you call them?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it? Bitty hummed thoughtfully to himself. He’d been taught that miracles were something divine. They were big, and showy, and involved fish and wine and usually ended in martyrdom. But he thought, too, of overdoses, and drafts, and hospital rooms, and then of college applications and hockey scholarships, Haus dibs and Graduation days, Stanley Cups, Tuesday mornings, and big breakfasts, and he smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I do.”

Dawn had given way to a beautiful morning, and Bitty gave thanks for that small miracle, too.

“Good morning, you beauties, you!” Shitty hollered, sticking his head out of a neighboring window to shatter the morning stillness.

Scot groaned, and Bitty chuckled, and Shitty went on.

“Bitty, my darling, my love, I am in desperate need of French toast.”

“You could make it yourself, you know,” Bitty suggested, but he sat up and began to scoot his way back towards Scot’s window.

“And likely poison myself in the process?” Shitty cried. “I wouldn’t dare. Margot would be in pieces without me.”

“She certainly would,” Bitty conceded, and Scot rolled their eyes. 

“Quiet pieces, though,” they muttered to Bitty, and he laughed. 

“Shitty, kindly put your head back inside. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Shitty blew him a kiss before ducking back through the window. 

Bitty climbed inside and offered a hand to Scot, who reluctantly rolled over and followed him in.

“This is gonna be like the hockey house all over again, isn’t it?” Scot asked, then gasped. “Am I hockey bro now? Dear God, please tell me I’m not a hockey bro.”

“Scot, honey, I’m sorry to break this to you, but I think you’ve been a hockey bro all along.”

Scot let out a wail and flopped down onto their bed. “This is literally the worst news I have ever received. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Bitty shook his head in amusement. “Well, come on down for breakfast when you figure it out,” he said. “Skoosh.”

Scot’s shrieks of despair followed him into the hallway. Downstairs, Shitty was wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and one striped sock, dancing around the kitchen to Queen’s greatest hits, and Lardo was glowering in her pajamas from behind a cup of coffee. Bitty’s phone chimed in his pocket with what he knew was a good morning text from Jack, and he smiled. _Small miracles indeed_ , he thought, and set to work on making breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are not enough thank you's in the world for everyone who started and stuck with this train until this last stop. You're all marvelous, and you have given me life these past 12 weeks. I wish you all the best. 
> 
> This week's chapter brought to you by "I Know it's Wrong" by Hurray for the Riff Raff and "Here Comes the Sun" by George Harrison. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bMtwjaNuQ8w
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yGKPHFrHVVY
> 
> Love how it ended? Hate how it ended? Awash with uncertainty about endings in general? Leave a comment, or find me on tumblr as achoo-gesundheit. 
> 
> (As an apology for any emotions this author may have caused, please stop by next week for a fluff filled one-shot of AU nonsense).


End file.
